Finite Incantatem
by HollyShadow88
Summary: Potterlock. A project for NaNoWriMo 2014. When Minerva McGonagall makes a surprise visit to Baker Street, a part of John's past that he hoped he put behind him comes crashing back to the forefront. With a baby and an overly curious Sherlock Holmes in tow, John is forced back into the world he put behind him to bring a stop to the mysteriously familiar deaths haunting London.
1. Prologue

_Friends! I LIIIIIIVE! __Yeah, sorry about basically disappearing. I've had a few health issues over the last year that made writing particularly difficult, but thankfully everything sorted itself out with the proper medications just in time for NaNo. I decided to just go for it this year and write a legit fanfic, and thus Finite Incantatem was born. This story was actually inspired by a popular post that has gone around Tumblr involving McGonagall visiting John at 221b to discuss how his shoulder injury came about from being an Auror. I altered things around a bit (as you'll see eventually) and elaborated and this was the result. Just for a note, this takes place a few months after the end of season three. The good news is that, because it was for NaNo, this is technically finished - I just need to get on typing up and editing. Ideally this means quick updates. Ideally. We'll see how it goes. Anyway, ENJOY!_

Prologue

The sun had hardly decided to arrive when the sound began. Before, the townhouse sat completely still, the only signs of life coming from the gentle inhales and exhales of its occupants. It was only the murmurings of an infant, gradually increasing as its distress grew, that caused its parents to eventually rise into a half form of wakefulness.

"John?" muttered Mary, her bed-tussled hair becoming even more unruly as she ran a hand raggedly through it. "Is that – "

She was interrupted by a whimpering mewl from the baby monitor on her bedside. Groaning slightly, she made to rise before a hand slowly shot out to stop her. "No, wait," John said as he sat up and blinked his eyes in an attempt to rouse his mind. "You got her three times last night, let me."

"If she's hungry – "

"Yes, right, I know," John replied, pushing back the covers and stretching as he stood, a rough hand absentmindedly scrubbing at his shoulder. His feet led him through the familiar path to the nursery down the hall, his eyes glancing briefly at the purple initials painted across the door. He quirked a small smile before silently pushing inside, making his way swiftly over to the crib's edge. A tiny, round face stared forlornly up at him, bright blue eyes faintly glittering with the beginnings of tears.

"Ah now, my wee lass, none of that," John said to her as he reached down to take hold of her. He lifted her into his snug arms, tucking her head comfortably into the crook of his elbow. Swaying softly, John made his way over to the window, glancing out at the view. He leaned in towards her as he began to mumble quietly, gaze drifting between her and the garden outside.

The garden was small, hardly more than a few flowerbeds and a sprinkling of vegetable plants. Ever since the baby arrived, neither John nor Mary had had the time to properly care for it, but some of the plants had flourished on their own regardless. One bush in particular, a rose John had insisted upon adding and caring for himself, sat directly below the window. It had taken more work than John had originally cared to admit, but it was flourishing now, a few of the flower heads reaching high enough to be seen at the very edge of the windowsill.

"That, my darling, is an osiria, a crossbreed," John explained with a tiny grin, rocking her forward slightly so her curious face could take the plants in. "They're the only kind of rose to have those two shades, red blending into white. They were my mum's favourite, the only kind she'd grow when I was young."

The baby cooed and sniffled up at him, tiny hands curling in and out of tight fists. Her face wrinkled up slowly, expression turning to one of distress. John clasped her tighter, expertly taking in the signs before reaching out a free hand to snatch up the rocking chair left not far away. He lowered himself down and set a gentle rhythm, watching as his daughter's face immediately smoothed out, expression turning inquisitive as she stared up at him expectantly. Chuckling lightly, John sat back and let out a soft sign as his attention drifted back to the window.

"I remember finding them when I first went to school. Last place I expected to see osiria roses, certainly. Apparently they were one of the few sorts of plants to grow well out there. They didn't have much purpose beyond looking well, but I appreciated the reminder of Mum regardless."

John's face crinkled in thought, memories chasing each other through his mind. The baby watched nearly silently, hands occasionally reaching out in an attempt to touch the wrinkles forming on the scruffy outline of his jaw. It wasn't until an inquiring coo drew John's attention downward that he returned to the present, the creases of his face smoothing out instantly as he smiled down at her. He brushed a hand gently across the slight dusting of light brown hair coating her head, his smile growing as she let out slight babbles of pleasure. John wasn't sure how long he sat and simply watched her as she drifted back to sleep, one foot slowly pushing the rocking chair in a constant steady motion. The sun was just cresting over the horizon when she finally completely returned to sleep, her mouth left agape to reveal soft, toothless gums. With as much ease as possible given his stiff limbs, John rose to his feet and set her carefully back into her crib, easing her brief protest in slumber with encouraging noises at the back of his throat and a brush across her brow. A sudden burst of inspiration had his head shooting up to glance back out of the window.

With footsteps that purposefully avoided the well known creaks of the floor, John made his way out into the kitchen. He riffled through various drawers, eventually pulling out a spare pair of gardening scissors before slipping his bare feet into a set of loafers beside the back door. The day was already warmer than usual at that early hour, a slight haze giving everything a fuzzy glow. He set off for the osiria rose bush with intention in his stride, his blue gaze darting over the thick vines to find the ideal blooms. Most of the buds coating the bush had already flowered, but closer to the bottom where the plants had to fight for their share of sunlight were a few unopened blooms. John's knees gave out a slight creak of protest as he knelt down, one hand reaching out to caress the outside of a bud on the cusp of opening. The silky edges of the petals melted gracefully from a silvery grey shade of white into a radiant ruby, the pairing of colors somehow managing to flow with seamless ease from one to the other. He chose a trio of buds just ready to open as well as a few that had already bloomed, careful to snip away any thorns. Once satisfied with his collection, he cleared away his trimmings and made his way back indoors.

They didn't have any traditional vases, so John chose a tall, unadorned water glass, filling it half full of water from the tap. He arranged the flowers as best as he could and carried the ensemble back into his daughter's bedroom. For a moment he paused in the doorway, contemplating where was best to leave his decoration. As he stood considering, the sun finally came across the windowsill's bottom edge, sending a flashing bolt of summer sunlight across the entirety of the room. With an almost indiscernible twitch of his lips, John walked past the crib to set the roses on the sill. The sunlight reflected playfully through the water as it shifted from the motion of being set down, sending rays of sun darting over the ceiling. John gave a quick nod of approval and returned to the crib, leaning over the edge to check on the baby below. She continued to sleep soundly, her lips twitching occasionally as she suckled the air. John rubbed his calloused thumb over her forehead, chuckling softly at her noises of approval.

"Sleep well, _Síleas_, my love," John muttered, a crease of thought crossing his forehead. His thumb settled between the baby's brows, causing her forehead to furrow slightly. "I wonder…" John's voice trailed off, a huff of irritation coming out as he suddenly straightened. "No. It doesn't matter. The chance is small." He stiffened his spine and gave a sharp nod, closing the door with the smallest of clicks as he pulled it shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 1

_See, I told you I would hopefully be updating this fairly regularly! It helps that a lot of it was already in pretty decent shape to begin with. So right, we're hopping right on in to the gif set on Tumblr that inspired this story, the one where McGonagall visits John at 221b. Obviously this is headed in a slightly different direction, but the idea for this story sprang from all that. Come, enjoy McGonagall interacting with Sherlock with me, my friends. And definitely let me know what you think so far!_

Chapter One

Sherlock sat hunched over the kitchen table, broad shoulders bent forward awkwardly with his elbows raised in a high, unnatural position above his head. Before him lay four flasks, each partially filled with a smoky white liquid. With painstaking precision, he let loose a single drop from the dropper grasped in his left hand, immediately following it with two drops from the one in his opposite hand. The liquid fizzled slightly, letting off the somewhat sticky smell of burnt toffee, and Sherlock's head slammed forward to hit the table. The glasses rattled precariously as Sherlock groaned, maneuvering the goggles over his eyes between the table's wooden edge and his face. Eventually one came free from the other, causing him to throw the goggles across the room until their progress was halted by the back of John's armchair. He sat like that for a few moments, silently fuming, before his drama required a vocal outlet.

"DULL!" he shouted to no one in particular, proceeding to thunk his forehead against the table repeatedly. "I need a case!"

"You've only been finished with your last one two days ago," came the scolding sounds of Mrs. Hudson. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen behind him, a tray containing tea and a handful of biscuits clasped in her hands. "You'd think you'd be ready for a break, what with all of that Moriarty business finally at an end."

"Dull," Sherlock repeated, raising his head only long enough to grunt at Mrs. Hudson's offering. "Group of idiotic admirers of his attempting to bring back his ghost, simply a matter of tracking the whole lot down. Though I admit I was impressed by how far their reach had gotten before they made their move, it's hardly surprising. My brother ought to have expected as much if he truly was paying attention."

"Regardless, I'm glad it's at its end," Mrs. Hudson replied with a nod, pouring out a cup of tea. "Have you tried giving John a ring? It's been ages since he brought the baby round."

Sherlock grunted again, somehow managing to shrink his lanky body into the chair even further than it already was. "Out of town. Went to visit relatives or something or other."

Mrs. Hudson paused before the fireplace in contemplation, teacup balanced in her fingers. She let out a sound of understanding before bringing the cup to the table. "Of course, this is the weekend he and Mary were planning a trip down towards Bristol. He mentioned something about visiting his parents' graves while they were out there."

"Exactly what I said," Sherlock replied, leaping to his feet and ignoring the offering of tea in favour of his violin on the other side of the room. "Regardless, _dull_. And pointless, considering it means John is not easily at my disposal."

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake!" Mrs. Hudson cried, setting down the tea with an irritated chink and a sigh. "That poor man has had to put to rest far too many people in his life, yourself included. Show him your respect."

"I respect John Watson highly, Mrs. Hudson, but what is the point if he isn't nearby to appreciate it?" With that, the bow of his violin hit the strings, instantly breaking into a lament of a song appropriate for a man in such agitation. Mrs. Hudson sighed, making her way back down the stairs to her own flat. She was just about to enter her kitchen when the soft sound of someone knocking at the front door caught her attention.

The woman standing on 221b's stoop was elderly, even in comparison to Mrs. Hudson, yet held a muted spryness that became apparent in the strong way she held herself. Despite the warm mid-July weather, she remained smartly dressed in a long tartan dress and black overcoat. Her hair, long ago changed to solid grey, sat tightly knotted at the base of her scull in an immaculate bun. Though she greeted Mrs. Hudson with a smile, it was tight lipped and stern.

"Would this be the home of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?" the woman asked, her voice as strong as her bearing.

Mrs. Hudson continued to gape for a moment, eventually catching herself with a slight shake and a gesture behind her. "Ah…yes, well, one of them, yes. Come with me, dearie, he's just upstairs."

The pair made their way up the stairs, the visitor's heels clacking along with the creaks of wood as they climbed. The sounds of Sherlock's violin grew louder as they approached, drifting in a downward spiral from door Mrs. Hudson had left open when she left minutes before. Though their approach could obviously be heard from his spot standing before one of the windows, he ignored them, back facing away from the rest of the room as he continued to play.

"Sherlock, you've a visitor," Mrs. Hudson called over the drifting sounds of the violin. When Sherlock continued to ignore her, Mrs. Hudson threw her hands up with a sigh and turned back to the woman. "I'm dreadfully sorry, he's always in a bit of a strop without a case. I do hope you've come with something that will catch his interest."

"Not a case!" Sherlock suddenly cried, the bow jittering across the strings in an outcry of protest when he pulled the instrument away from his chin and finally turned to face them. His eyes narrowed in a glare that darted from one woman to the other. "You knocked rather than ring the bell, indicating that you are not here under distress, at least not for yourself. No stuttering down at the door in indecision, so obviously you came here with a purpose. Your face is agitated, but it's an expression of resigned concern – something's come up, something from the past that was assumed to be over and has proven otherwise. You purposefully asked for both myself _and _Dr. Watson, meaning that you either wish to take both of us on for a case, which is unlikely since your stance indicated the bearing of news of some sort rather than an outright question, or you wish to speak to one or both of us directly. Since you mentioned both names, I suspect you are looking either for the pair of us or John individually. Seeing as I have never seen you before in my life, I'm leaning slightly more towards just John. However, John Watson has not resided at 221b Baker Street for nearly two years now, leaving me to doubt how close a connection the two of you have – or, rather once had – if you haven't been informed of his most recent address, let alone the various supposedly significant life events that have occurred for him. Therefore, not a case." With that, Sherlock flopped himself down into his armchair, violin sprawled lazily across his lap.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson huffed with a shake of her head. "Must you be so rude to _everyone _who comes to call? Honestly, young man, what would your mother say?

"Most likely something along the lines of what you just said," Sherlock replied, a single finger dragging across the violin's strings. His eyes, currently a light blue in the sunlight filtering in from the window to his left, bore unblinking over his visitor's face, watching carefully for her reactions. She said nothing as he studied her, hardly moving as she studied him right back. The faintest of smiles, hardly more than a soft crinkle at the edge of one side of her mouth, was the only sign that she had even heard him speak. "Now then, what can I do for you, Doctor?"

"Merely a professor, Mr. Holmes, thank you," she replied, fully entering the room and settling herself on the very edge of John's armchair. "I'm afraid my field of expertise hardly ever goes on to the level of that sort of mastery."

Giving a sharp nod, Sherlock continued to watch her as he called out to a retreating Mrs. Hudson, "Tea would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, what an excellent suggestion."

Mrs. Hudson paused on the stairs to call back, "Not your housekeeper, dear, not even when you've guests! Besides, I've just brought you a fresh pot not five minutes before, if you'd been at all bothered to pay attention." They heard the door to her flat shut with a determined snap, finally leaving the pair alone in their dueling observations. Sherlock pulled out one of his many charming smiles, gesturing a pale hand toward the kitchen.

"Might I interest you in a cup of tea, Professor?" he asked, a mockery of courtesy turning his deep voice almost friendly. The woman smiled stiffly back, hands folding together on her lap.

"That would be lovely," she replied, staring at Sherlock over the top rims of her spectacles. The two continued to stare one another down, neither moving in a silent showdown. Surprisingly, Sherlock found his eyelids fluttering downward towards the floor, an expression of reluctant submission falling over his face. He let out a loud huff of annoyance and jumped to his feet, tossing down his violin in his recently vacated chair and storming into the kitchen. He spent a moment fussing with the tea tray, organizing everything with an unnecessary loudness that carried nearly downstairs. Moments later, the readied tea tray sat between them, the woman with a slightly cooled cup in her frail hands and Sherlock returned to his seat, violin once more in hand. He glared over the tray at the woman as she took a sip, gaze eventually drawing back to his.

"How kind of you, Mr. Holmes, thank you," she said, her courtesy as true as his. She set aside the cup to fully return her focus to Sherlock, her face still as blank as when she entered. "You've deduced much of what I've come here for thus far…what more can you find?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose into the fringe of curls on his forehead, eyes blinking a few times in surprise. He quickly took up the offered challenge, relishing the unexpected opportunity to study a willing participant. His eyes narrowed as he looked the woman up and down, taking a deep breath before he began. "You're a professor, as we've discussed, but do not have a doctorate, meaning your field is most likely one of lesser interest. You mentioned earlier that it does not offer doctorate programs, so your lack of that specific title is not due to laziness, though the chance of that to begin with is laughable. You're single, previously married, but the gentleman is long dead. You're content in your position but worn, on the cusp of retirement but unsure if you are ready to give up on something you obviously enjoy. Your clothing is a traditional Scottish design, but you were raised in England, probably residing in both places from the pitch of your accent. Though you appear quite old, your movements are certain, lacking in the usual discomfort of one of advanced years. I would consider you to be no more than sixty-five, seventy at the absolute latest, and in your post for most of your life. You have no children of your own, making your students the absolute centre of your life. You've been through much, possibly even – no." Sherlock jerked himself out of his endless diatribe, shooting back to his feet to circle the woman's chair. His eyes were nearly turned to slits as he knelt down on one knee before her, face level with her own. "You couldn't possibly have been in battle."

"You underestimate me, Sherlock Holmes," she chided, taking another sedate sip of tea. "I must admit that your prejudice toward the elderly surprises me."

"But _how_?" Sherlock muttered, head twisting in every direction in search of an answer. "Even the healthiest of individuals feel the limitations of the human body eventually, and the position of teacher hardly leaves one in the ripe physical state for _fighting_."

"Never doubt a woman whose students and home have been threatened," the woman replied seriously, causing Sherlock's rapid dissection to screech to a halt. "I'm certain if anyone could understand something of that sort, it would be you."

"We've never met," he said slowly, hand resting on the arm of her chair to balance himself.

"We have not, but even dead you made yourself well known." She took a moment to watch him as he moved back to sit on the floor, back resting against his seat. "You said John does not live here any longer. Would you happen to have his most recent address?"

"Of course I do, but it will do you little good," Sherlock replied, hand ruffling absentmindedly through his hair. "He's gone, out of town for the weekend. You're only here in London briefly. By the time he comes back, you'll be long gone."

"I have means to return," she said with a nod. "His address, Mr. Holmes? I'm afraid the information I have is of upmost importance."

"What reason do I have to trust you? What is to say you do not wish John harm? You haven't even given your name, Professor…"

"McGonagall. I knew John well once – he was a student of mine when he was young. The matter concerns the deaths of John's parents; I am aware of just how close the two of you are, but this is not information I am willing to give up for anyone other than the man himself."

"John's parents…" Sherlock trailed off, eyes settling on the fireplace. "I knew they were both dead, but beyond that, there's little he will say or I can deduce. What could an old schoolteacher of John's possibly know of his parents' deaths?"

McGonagall abruptly stood, readjusting her coat as she did. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes, and give John my regards. Tell him my Floo is always open if he feels so inclined to discuss the matter, and he is welcome back at Hogwarts whenever he pleases." With a sharp nod and a wish for him to have a pleasant day, McGonagall turned and started down the stairs.

Sherlock had sprung to his feet when McGonagall had, and now that she was leaving, he raced to catch up. "No!" he cried as he slid past her and blocked the way, the pair of them halfway down the stairs. "What is Hogwarts? What is a Floo?"

McGonagall smirked at him and rested a hand on the railing. "Can't you deduce it?"

"Not even I can see everything, as my darling older brother loves to point out," Sherlock scowled, impatience rising. "What are you refusing to tell me, Professor McGonagall?"

"If John hasn't informed you, I have no right to do it either." For the first time since they'd met, McGonagall shot him a pitying look. Frown lines creased her forehead, causing him to echo the expression. "I have no doubt that you and John Watson are very close, but if you truly feel for him what I suspect, you will let him tell you his secrets. His life has been a difficult one, like so many of his peers', and he was forced to grow up so much sooner than he ought. I will not reveal John Watson's past for him, particularly such a past as his. Besides, the chances of you believing anyone's words other than his own in this are doubtful."

When Sherlock simply stared up at her, McGonagall pushed past him with a gentle nudge, continuing down the stairs to pull open the door. Before she stepped back out into the street, she turned to study the man frozen on the steps. "It has been a fascinating visit, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for the tea, and don't forget to relay my message to John." With that, she pulled the door shut behind her.

Sherlock remained quiet and stoic on the steps for a few seconds that felt like half a lifetime. His mind raced through the conversation, storing away the significant information into their appropriate sections of his mind palace. With a start, he returned to the present, realizing belatedly that his most recent object of intrigue had vacated the premises. He bolted down the stairs to yank open the door, practically collapsing out onto the sidewalk and frantically shooting his head about for a glimpse of the distinct tartan. He caught it just as McGonagall turned a corner not far down the street, surprisingly going down an alley that he knew held little more than a few empty trash bins. He was dashing after her less than a second later, but when he entered the alley it was completely and utterly devoid of human life. Sherlock felt his jaw drop open slightly, his wide eyes darting across the entirety of the space but finding nothing. He took a few steps farther down the small space, noiseless as his bare feet trod across the grimy pavement. Quickly regaining himself from his surprise, he began to assess the area, taking in possible escape routes. The end of the alley stood blocked by a solid brick wall, newly renovated less than a year before from the solidity of the cement between the blocks. To both the right and left were the walls of the buildings at each side, no windows or doors leading out to the small area. From Sherlock's careful assessment, there appeared to be only one way in or out, yet the space was undoubtedly empty.

Sherlock made his way back to 221b, ignoring the burn of the sun baked sidewalk on the soles of his feet. As soon as he had returned to the living room, he dove for his laptop (actually his for once, as was more likely now that John had moved out) and settled into his chair. He pulled up a search and typed in Hogwarts, scrolling through page after page of random information leading him to nothing of use. The same resulted when searching for Floo and McGonagall's name, leaving Sherlock even more irritable than when the morning began. By the time he looked up again from the screen, darkness had fallen, dousing him in little more than the bright eerie glow of his screen and the dull yellow of the street lamps peering in from outside. He scrounged about in the cushions of the chair, eventually uncovering his buried phone, before sending out a quick text and leaping to his feet. Surely somewhere in the city of London he could find an open library or bookstore, possibly one that could provide more than the internet had. He tossed the phone onto the mantle before heading for his bedroom, intending to finally get dressed now that he had a proper reason to do so. The message on the phone's screen glowed on the scull's ivory surface from where they sat side by side, open for any to read.

_Met an old professor of yours today. McGonagall. Investigating more. SH_

Meanwhile, just outside of Bristol, John jolted awake at the buzz of his cell with a groan.

Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 2

_Wow. Seriously, that's all that I have to say in reply to the response this story has gotten. And now I'm just sitting here hoping that it lives up to the hype. Sorry this took so long to get out - between my birthday this weekend and co-running the kitchen at my church's annual Christmas bazaar, life's been hectic. This chapter's main purpose is to give some background, on John and his family specifically. Also, the angst starts here. I really didn't set out with the intention of this story to be as angsty as it is, but...well. It happened. I'm sorry. This is your warning. It ends happy, but there are hella feels to get there. Also, ten points to the Hogwarts house of your choice if you can figure out the real life individual I based one of these characters on. Enjoy and let me know what you think!_

Chapter Two

John woke early the next morning despite his late night text, which he had chosen to ignore for the time being when he realized it was from Sherlock and nothing of immediate importance. He, Mary, and the baby were staying with a few friends for the weekend, both as a way to introduce their daughter to them and have willing babysitters for the visit they would be making later that day. John climbed nearly silently from the bed in the guest room, leaving Mary to continue sleeping while he checked on their child. She too lay content and fast asleep in her crib, her eyes darting about underneath her eyelids with enthusiasm as she dreamt. John left her with a quick kiss on her forehead and padded into the bathroom to take a quick shower. As he tousled a burgundy towel through his grey-blonde hair, the memory of Sherlock's message came to him and led him back to the bedside table. He scrubbed at his jaw as he picked the phone up and scrolled through the texts, thoughts more focused on considering whether he ought to bother shaving that morning than whatever Sherlock had sent. Any contemplation of his daily routine, however, instantly fell away once he read the words Sherlock had sent a few hours before.

Sherlock had met McGonagall. Assumedly Minerva McGonagall, headmistress (possibly even former by now; John had been so disconnected from that world that it was entirely possible she'd deservedly retired years before) of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even at the simple passing thought of the name, John's mind immediately snapped back to memories, many of them overall awful – meetings with the Order, dueling with Death Eaters, watching his friends die. It was a sort of PTSD all on its own, no less significant than that which he'd gained fighting in Muggle wars, but of a different sort, laced with scenes that were dancing with sparks of magic rather than gunfire. There were happy flashbacks in addition to the fear and pain, thoughts of doing homework with friends in the common room, practicing new spells in class, lounging down by the lake once finals were over, but they were far outnumbered by the less favourable ones. It was a world John Watson hadn't interacted with in far too long a time, and he wasn't sure how he felt about being suddenly thrust back into it once more, particularly right now.

"Hmm, John?" Mary's voice, gravelly with sleep, came from behind him, rousing him back from the depths of his thoughts. "Is everything all right? Did Cecy wake?"

"No, she's fine," John muttered, staring down at his phone with a blank expression. The glow of the screen had long since gone dark. "Just…thinking."

"We don't have to go, if you'd rather not," Mary replied in a low voice, sitting up and reaching out to wrap an arm around his chest. He supposed the move was intended to be comforting, but at the moment it mostly felt constricting.

"It's not that," he said, clutching the phone in a tighter grip. "Just something from Sherlock. He sent me a text last night at bloody two in the morning. Shouldn't be surprised, but it got me thoughtful. We can still go. I want to."

Mary nodded, her forehead rubbing against his bad shoulder with the movement. John tried not to flinch, but given where his mind had been, it wasn't a surprise that the motion caused a sensitive flashback jolting through him that he fought to subdue. Luckily he was saved from a most likely uncomfortable discussion of how this trip wouldn't do his still occasionally troubled mind much good by the sounds of a newly waking infant.

"Ah, the princess awakes," Mary said with a chuckle, drawing away from John to draw on her dressing gown and approach the crib's side. "Morning, Cecelia Watson. Are you ready for another day of being spoiled rotten?"

John tried to chuckle along with Mary, but his focus could only be distracted for so long before it meandered back to Sherlock's text. He considered half a dozen possible replies to it, ranging from _McGonagall who? _to _Bit not good, Sherlock. More like bloody fucking hell not good._ before sending one out. He kept it simple with a _Not now, Sherlock. We'll talk when I get home._

John offered to watch over Cecelia while Mary got ready, a suggestion she readily accepted. Tossing his phone on the pillow as though he could toss away the memories that came with it, he returned to the crib's side and scooped her into his arms, automatically smiling when she gurgled at the movement. Her eyes shone brightly as she smiled up at him, the noises acting as her good morning greeting. Though his daughter had been able to easily alter his mood regardless of the circumstances in the five months she had been theirs, John couldn't keep fight down the dancing touches of reflection that Sherlock's message had given him at bay. The fact that it was July didn't help the matter – not even fully reimmursing himself in the Muggle world could cause John to forget the celebrated birth of the Boy Who Lived. He mentally counted back the years; Harry Potter would be thirty-five in a few brief weeks.

Mary found him absentmindedly rocking Cecelia, his expression distant and unfocused. It took her gentle prod to his arm to bring him back to the present. "You sure you're okay, John?" she asked as they transferred Cecelia from one set of arms to another. "You seem off."

"Just the date, I suppose," John replied with a tired smile. "It's always been one of the harder ones, among others."

Mary shot him an understanding smile. "Go on and get dressed while I get Cecy settled. We'll head out to the spot whenever you're ready. We've got time."

"Yeah, I know," John sighed, digging through one of the suitcases for a pair of jeans. His head shot up with a frown from where he knelt, lines of wrinkles forming between his eyes. "Actually, Mary, I hate to ask it, but…you think I could head out on my own today? Just today, I promise. We'll stop by with Cecy tomorrow, but I think I'd rather be on my own this time round."

"Of course. Don't worry about us; we'll find something to amuse ourselves, won't we, Princess?" At the question, Mary grinned down at the baby and rocked her a few times, causing Cecelia to giggle happily. John chuckled at the sound as he finished dressing, but his heart wasn't in it. He snatched up his cell as he made his way from the room, calling out a goodbye to the two as he went. By taking the spare back stairs, he managed to avoid interacting with anyone he'd rather avoid at the moment and make his way to the car they decided to rent when they arrived. Silently as was possible, he settled himself in the vehicle and made his way down the drive toward the cemetery.

John's father was originally born in the small town just north of Bristol, growing up there and raising his children in the same home he was born in. How he managed to get out enough to meet a young woman, let alone one from Scotland up north, was always a tale that led to a few laughs as it was retold down at the pub over evening drinks. Síleas had been beautiful since the day she was born, hardly even appearing as though she aged even at the time of her death. The lives of the Watson family were surprisingly happy ones given where they all ended up in later years, up until the day of John's eleventh birthday at the very least.

John drove steadily down the familiar gravel roads, still covered in the same patterns of rocks and roots he remembered from his youth. The town only had two cemeteries, having finally outgrown the plot in the east when John was in the military, and he had distinct memories of dares with his friends to enter the area at night, made eerie by the lack of street lamps and massive trees turned murderous by starlight and moon beam. It was beside one of these enormous trees, an apple that had stopped properly flowering long before the plot was purchased, that his parents resided.

The road, if the hole laden and pitchy patch of gravel could even be considered that, halted just before the cemetery's rusted gate. John parked beside it and climbed out, taking a deep gulp of faintly sea salt tinged air before proceeding to the creaky opening. The sound of the gate's entrance unfastening echoed across the patch of land, though the birds and various other wildlife who called it their home hardly paused in their noise to pay any mind to the long familiar sound. John's sneakers swished through the overgrown grass when he made his way inside, eyes casually flowing from one gravestone to another, taking in names both familiar and otherwise. His parents' graves were farther into the centre, so there were various memorials to pass before reaching the one he sought. A few had flags or other similar badges of honor, indicating military service and accolades, proclaiming how one sacrificed oneself for queen and country. Many had flowers, occasionally fresh but mostly long dried and dead, and John briefly considered whether he ought to have brought some himself before he laughed bitterly at himself. If he really wished to leave a gift at the grave, he had the means to do so.

John suddenly came to an abrupt halt when he reached the bottom of the last sloping bit of hill right before the graves. The headstones were still intact, dull grey against a sea of darker grey over browning green, but they were not alone. A solitary figure stood between the two recently replaced headstones, shoulders hunched so far forward that the head topped with a mass of russet curls could barely be seen over them. John briefly considered whether he ought to come back later when his choice was made for him. The woman turned and met his eyes, navy meeting navy.

Harry Watson was technically two years older than her brother, but life and alcohol had aged her enough that she looked to be nearly ten years more than that. Though the curls on her head still had a touch of their old crazed life to them, John's memory of their madness from their youth helped him to realize just how dull, lifeless, and thin the strands had become. Wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth, her skin even paler than it was naturally, and her clothes looked as though they barely held together enough to stay on her limp and once curvy frame. The only jewelry she wore was her former wedding ring, though it looked cheap and paltry with the jewel missing from the center. The lines at the corners of her eyes, lines that ought to have been a result of laughter and joy, became even more pronounced when they narrowed at the approaching man.

"John dear," she said when he stopped only a few feet away. "What a pleasant surprise. Lucky me, to finally get to see the golden child, even if it's not me you came to visit."

"Come on, Harry, leave off it," John replied with a sigh and a hand running through his short hair. "You've been invited to visit from Mary more times than I can remember, provided you're sober. It isn't all my fault."

"Oh, of course not," she said, turning back to face the graves. Her voice rang thick with painful sarcasm. "Heaven forbid you take all of the blame."

John forced himself not to shoot back a retort, clenching and unclenching his fists as he strode to her side. Even though they were technically side-by-side, an awkward emptiness resided in the foot of air between them. Before John got his letter, such an occurrence would have been unheard of.

Neither chose to speak for several minutes, instead opting to stare down at the lettering on the graves at their feet. The matching death dates, exactly eighteen years before, seemed to shine out from the material more prominently than anything else. Eventually Harry squatted down on creaking ankles, balancing herself on the balls of her feet as she reached out a hand to trace the numbers in the carved stone.

"These are new," she stated, her tone on the verge of conversational. "Business with the consulting lunatic really going that well?"

"Wedding gifts, actually. Sherlock's brother gave them to us. I was surprised at the sentimentality – it's not usually the Holmes sort of thing, and Mycroft and I aren't exactly close, but it was a lovely gesture anyway. You like them?"

Harry shrugged and straightened back up, hands diving into the pockets of her jacket. "Better than the single one from before, at least. They deserved to each have their own."

"It was the best we could do at the time, you know that," John muttered, attempting to disguise his low simmering resentment. He'd been employed as a Junior Healer at the time and hardly had enough cash on his own for his single room flat, let alone funeral expenses for two. The fact that all of Harry's cash went to booze didn't exactly help matters.

"And by _we_ you mean _you_, naturally," she said bitterly. She was trying to conceal the hurt in her voice, but John had known her his entire life and was closer to her than anyone at one point; he could pick up on his sister's emotions better than his own at times. "It's not like I was exactly helpful at the time."

"If you're the one to say it," John replied before he could stop himself. He mentally cringed as Harry spun to face him, her dead eyes now lit with fury and sorrow.

"Oh yes, because perfect little Johnny was the selfless one, going off to that fucking school and learning all his wizarding shit while Harry sat at home and drank herself stupid when she wasn't getting fired from yet another job. How was it being the ideal child, John? Not only talented in the usual sorts of ways but a bloody wizard to top it all off?"

"Harry, please," John begged, reaching out to grasp her elbow. She nearly lost her balance from how quickly she moved away to avoid the touch. "Can't we meet up for once without bickering? Particularly on today of all days. Mum hated it."

"_Meet up_," she scoffed. "You say that as though you didn't purposefully avoid phoning me to ask if I might want to come down with your wee perfect family to see our parents' graves on the day they died."

"If I'd known you remembered, I bloody well might have! Jesus, Harry, do you have to be impossible all of the time? I'm sorry, all right?"

Harry snorted like a bull on the attack and paced over to lean against the tree's rotting trunk. "Yes, because you're always to be the one to apologize, you're always the one to take the blame for everyone's faults. You have to be the sacrificial lamb at the altar as well as fantastic with everything else besides."

"I might as well, since no matter what I say or do I'm the one you see in the wrong!" John's temper had finally risen from a dull simmer at the back of his throat to a roar barreling through his chest. "What do you want from me, Harry? I can't win with you. It's either you're angry with me for being the one actually in the wrong or pissed that I take the blame! No matter what, it always ends with us angry and no longer speaking, so why should I fucking try?"

For a while neither of them spoke, John standing soaked in his fury and Harry waiting for it to die back down. When she did speak, her words were the complete opposite of helpful. "This never would have been an issue if you hadn't turned out to be a ruddy wizard."

John had no response at first but to gape over at his slightly shorter sister, completely thrown by her words. "You're joking," he muttered, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. "You must be fucking joking. Are you seriously trying to place this blame on me, the _deaths of our parents_, on the fact that I was born a wizard? Which, I'm inclined to point out, is entirely out of my control! Mum and Dad weren't wizards, none of their families were wizards, so it's not as though it was passed down to me and shirked over you. And given all of the trouble its caused, I should think it's rather obvious that I'd rather not have the gift at all, thanks very bloody much." John's voice stayed steady and low, reverting to the darkly analytical tone he used when questioning a suspect on a case. On the last sentence, however, he was unable to keep the somewhat choked ache out of his voice. "I would give anything, _anything_, to trade my powers for having Mum and Dad back. If you haven't realized that in the past eighteen years, Harriet, you're even greater a disappointment of a big sister than I ever could have expected."

Once finished, John's back straightened into military rest and he cleared his throat, sniffling the touch of tears from the back of it. Without looking over to see if Harry noticed, he spun and began walking away, his stride steady. The scuffling of her boots on the grass told him she had followed, and he clenched his eyes shut in a fight for control over her inevitable tirade.

"John, wait." Harry reached out and snatched at his elbow in a mirror of his previous move, causing him to jerk harshly away and tense in preparation for a physical altercation. She released him almost instantly, realizing how the action may have seemed, and held up her hands in a sign of surrender. "John, seriously, that's not what I meant at all. You know how I am – my mouth speaks before giving my brain the chance to tell it off, it always has. Your powers are amazing…I've been jealous since the day that letter arrived, wondering why I wasn't good enough, why no matter how hard I tried it was always you who was the best of us, the smartest, the kindest…I'm sorry, really I am, I just meant – "

"I'm sure we both understand quite well what you meant," John interrupted in a clipped voice. "I'm done here for the day, but I plan on bringing Mary and the baby round tomorrow afternoon before we head back to London. Do me the favour of being gone by then, if nothing else." He continued to make his way back to the car, the shouts of Harry calling his name carrying across the cemetery long after he was gone.


	4. Chapter 3

_We're really starting to get into the plot of the story with this chapter. I had lots of fun writing Mycroft - I think I just enjoy writing the somewhat stuffy characters who have a knack for sass and wit. XD Also, this chapter gets us started into the case; the fic itself isn't necessarily what I'd call a casefic, but the case is a decently significant plot point that I wanted to make sure I developed fairly well. Before anyone says anything, yes, I borrowed a bit from the movies here. I'm fully aware that an offhand comment John says later on is something that only happened in the Deathly Hallows movies rather than in the books, but it worked really well with my plot so I went for it. Yesterday's Pottermore info was surprisingly well-timed to be helpful here, particularly in that it reminded me of some things on the Leaky Cauldron that I didn't remember. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!_

Chapter Three

Sherlock hadn't heard from John since his initial reply on Saturday morning, resulting in him spending the entirety of the next two days digging up as many bits of information on the few clues he had been given that he could. He'd been unable to truly get anywhere the first night of his search; though living in the capital of the United Kingdom, not to mention one of the most populated and active cities in Europe, there were few bookstores or libraries open at three in the morning. Fiery with impatience and irritation, he meandered the streets of London in a stroppy huff until finally he was able to gain admittance somewhere. He spent the day jumping from one pile of books to another, his irritation growing with each unsuccessful hour that passed.

As though his time and mind weren't being abused enough by such a particularly determined mystery, an even more unwelcome guest paid 221b a call on Sunday afternoon. After physical books led him nowhere, Sherlock delved back into the internet, scrounging deeper and deeper into the depths of the human interaction in search of answers. He just began to feel as though he was gaining ground when the heavy footfalls of an outrageously expensive pair of dress shoes tapped up the stairs, accompanied by the monotonous tick of metal against wood. Sherlock chose to ignore the man as he strode into the living room and stood before him, blank eyes studying the piles of notes and books that lay scattered across the short table before the couch. Sherlock sat on the floor, back resting against the lower portion of the couch and legs contorted beneath the table's low legs, and typed furiously at the keys of the laptop that was directly in front of him. His jaw clenched around the pen resting in his mouth, irritated both with his search and his visitor.

"Are we enjoying ourselves, baby brother?" Mycroft inquired, his voice smooth and completely lacking in any sign genuine curiosity. Sherlock huffed and snatched the pen from his teeth, eyes still glued to the computer screen.

"Whatever it is you've come to ask, Mycroft, the answer is no. I've more important tasks at hand than to once again act as your minion."

"So little respect given what I have done for you," Mycroft chided, making his way over to the fireplace and choosing to take a seat in John's armchair. His long fingers locked over his knees once he lowered himself down, umbrella placed with delicate care at his side. "Aren't you even going to try and pretend to be courteous and ask if I require tea?"

"Get your own bloody tea, I'm _busy_," Sherlock growled in reply, one hand reaching up to ruffle at his curls. From their particularly maddened appearance, it was clear to see that personal hygiene had been forgone in the excitement of the chase.

"Has it even occurred to you to inquire from me about what you're looking for?" Mycroft asked with an air of doting frustration he often found himself using around his brother. "I am, as you do so love to point out, a minor figure of the British government."

"You are the British government," Sherlock corrected, mouth contorted into a frustrated scowl as his hands scurried about in search of a particular piece of paper. His eyes narrowed down at it once the piece was found, pupils racing across the page as he read. "I may be distracted, Mycroft, but I am far from stupid."

"I never said otherwise." They continued without speaking for several minutes, Sherlock grumbling to himself as he ducked between the laptop and his mass of notes and Mycroft merely watching. Eventually he cleared his throat and stated, "I normally am one to encourage enthusiastic research, as you well know, but in this instance I'm afraid I'll need to discourage your venture."

"And what could possibly make you think I would listen to your advice now given all of your previously unsuccessful attempts?"

"Because this time it is for John's sake." Sherlock's head shot up for the first time since Mycroft entered, his eyes narrowing at the man with suspicion. Mycroft held his gaze, his expression as serious and closed as ever. "If you truly care for Dr. Watson, Sherlock, you'll let him alone in this one thing. If John had wished to disclose this information regarding his past with you, he would have by now. Listen to me when I say that you are delving into information far beyond your current understanding."

"What would you know of it?" Sherlock snapped, untangling his long limbs and rising to his feet. "What could this possibly be about for John to discuss it with you and not me?"

"Drop it, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, mirroring Sherlock to stand. "This isn't some game for you to learn everything you can before the timer runs out; this is a human being, John Watson to be precise, and his past. If you truly care for him as I suspect you might, you will allow him to speak on his own terms in this one thing, if nothing else."

Sherlock slowly approached, eyes slinking across Mycroft before he came to stand right before him. "You know more. More even than John, or more than he realizes you know, I'm beginning to suspect. But what, exactly, is there to know? And why would you, of all people in John's life, need to know it?"

"I repeat, baby brother: _drop it._ I have no doubt Dr. Watson will explain all, but give him the proper chance to do so. This is far too deep a pit for you to be exploring without the proper light." Mycroft snatched up his umbrella, sent Sherlock a quick nod of farewell, and was down the stairs and out the door before Sherlock had the chance to think of a response. Eventually he turned to glance back at his research, a small frown on his face, before giving out a huff and storming into his bedroom.

John finally got the courage to call on Sherlock later that week. After the disaster of seeing Harry at the cemetery, he had been more than ready to return back to London and the clinic. They'd been dealing with a fairly stressful time – one of the doctors was on vacation for the week and London's youth had, for some reason, decided that it was the ideal time to break as many bones as possible – but he could only delay the inevitable for so long. He was actually surprised that Sherlock hadn't been texting him constantly to question him. The man's silence could mean one of various possibilities had occurred, and John could only hope that he had done the unthinkable and forgotten he'd even asked about McGonagall in the first place.

He stopped in to say hello to Mrs. Hudson before continuing up to the flat, determinately denying to himself that it was a tactic to delay the inevitable. She asked after the baby and he happily replied until even she could tell that he was stalling. Sending him away with the promising message of Sherlock acting anxious ever since that strange woman had visited while he'd been away, John was forced up the stairs to face the madness.

Shockingly the flat appeared much as it always was. The clutter, organized in precisely the way that Sherlock saw fit, still lay scattered throughout the room, the scull still on the mantle, the furniture amazingly intact. Sherlock himself was buzzing with restless energy, just finishing buttoning his suit jacket as John entered. He paused in his pacing when he noticed John, currently stormy grey eyes lighting with excitement.

"Ah, John, excellent, I was just about to text you," he declared, scooping up his cell phone and pocketing it. "Lestrade has a case, at least a seven, possibly even higher from what I can tell. He needs us immediately." He dashed down the stairs, John following close behind, and called out a farewell to Mrs. Hudson as they left. John hardly had the chance to catch up before he was climbing into a cab and they were off.

"So what have we got, then?" John asked, settling back into his seat. The excitement radiating off the other man was infectious, and John soon found himself echoing Sherlock's smile.

"A triple homicide," Sherlock crooned, unable to keep still as they darted between cars. "A local found the bodies in an alleyway when he was taking out the trash. Lestrade mentioned something about unusual markings on their foreheads." The cab came to an abrupt stop and Sherlock tossed a few bills at the cabbie before vaulting out, John right behind. He froze in his tracks, however, when he realized exactly where they were.

John usually tried to avoid Charing Cross Road, having no immediate reason to travel down there with its inevitable excess of unwanted memories. In fact, the last time he'd been on the street, and this pub in particular, was over twenty years ago, back when he still needed to visit Diagon Alley for the proper school supplies. Sherlock ignored it as he marched down the alley to the pub's left, his more astute than normal eyes darting across the Leady Cauldron's magically protected exterior without a second glance. John attempted to remain unphased, but he couldn't help the chill at the coincidence as he followed close behind.

"Took you two bloody long enough," Lestrade called from about halfway down the alley. Police officers littered the entirety of the small space, scrounging about in the semi-darkness caused even early in the afternoon from the pair of tall buildings at either side. From afar, the bodies seemed fairly standard – laying side by side in crumbled heaps, they appeared to have tiny scorch marks covering nearly every exposed bit of skin, though each piece of clothing remained fully intact. Sherlock stepped forward to kneel by the first body, eyes darting over it as Lestrade continued. "Like I told you on the phone, they were found about an hour ago by the shop keeper next door. They can't have been here long, given he was the first to notice, but we've got no idea how they got here without at least someone seeing or hearing something." Sherlock snapped on a glove from his pocket and turned the dead man's head gently, rubbing a thumb across his forehead. As John caught a brief glimpse of the white skin, he was forced to stifle his gasp.

Across the man's forehead was a faint etching, hardly even distinguishable between the other more random scarring. John knelt on the opposite side of the body, fingers desperately groping in his pockets for his own set of latex gloves. His hands visibly shook as he took the man's face out of Sherlock's grasp, pushing up the scraggly brown hair on his forehead and leaning in closer. Written in a jagged scrawl, John could just make out a word scratched into the man's flesh.

"Mudblood," John whispered, voice quieter than a release of breath. He scrambled over the body and dove at the next one, ignoring Sherlock's inquiries as he sought out the scarring on the other victims. The other two, another man and a woman, each bore the same word as the first man, the insult burned deep into their skin. John sat back on his ankles, hands shaking slightly while Sherlock fought to bring him back to reality.

"John? John! Come on, John, I need you to come back to me. What's a Mudblood? What does it mean? JOHN!"

He jolted at the noise and fully collapsed back into a sitting position. He peeled off the gloves and shook his head, attempting to physically force the creeping terror from his mind, before finally blinking a few times and meeting Sherlock's worried eyes. "Right, yeah. Sorry. Just…I've seen this before. More than once, actually."

"What is it, John?" Sherlock continued to encourage, a hand resting comfortably on his shoulder as he knelt on one knee at John's side. "Does it mean something specific?"

"I…I dunno," John lied, unable to do much more than shake his head again. He fought down a wave of unusual nausea as memories flooded him. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock caught his meaning and hauled John to his feet, slinging one of his limp arms across his shoulders. "Out of my way!" he snapped as he half carried John out into the open air, helping him sit on the kerb shakily. John's head hung between his knees as he fought to take in deep breaths, his eyes and jaw both clenched shut. "My God, John, what the hell is this to turn you so out of sorts?"

Eventually John's breathing evened out enough for him to raise his head, though his face was still startlingly pale. "I've seen this exactly twice," he managed to blurt out, his voice thick with disgust. "The last time was when a young woman had the same word burned into her forearm as a form of torture. The other was when I found my parents."

Despite himself, Sherlock felt his mouth gape open in shock. He'd known that John's parents were dead, but beyond that, there was little John would share about them beyond very passing comments. This new bit of knowledge of John's past raced through the pathways of his mind palace into the area reserved specifically for John, filed carefully into the gradually growing folder regarding John's childhood. His forehead furrowed in consideration as his mouth closed into a tight, thin line. "Mudblood…obviously derogatory, meant as an insult, most likely in regard to the individual's upbringing or lineage…but I've studied your family tree, John, there is no obvious reason why any of the typical prejudice groups of society would be inclined to insult your – John!" Sherlock was interrupted by John jumping to his feet and dashing towards the Leady Cauldron. "John, what on Earth – "

John ignored him to yank the Leaky's screeching door open, darting into the abrupt semi-darkness and blinking through the adjustment to search for the barkeep. Tom still ran the place the last time he'd visited, but the man was old and it had been years. The large, welcoming room was fairly empty, most likely cleared of the usual lunchtime crowd a while earlier, but the few individuals present jolted around in surprise at the sudden noise.

Sherlock, meanwhile, found himself once again gaping after John, watching in bemused confusion as he darted off in the direction of the abandoned building on beside the alleyway that held their crime scene. Between one blink and another, John had darted inside what had abruptly become a fairly unimpressive pub. Sherlock blinked in stunted confusion at the sudden change, gradually approaching the entrance John had left open to peer inside. He reached out a hand to run a finger down the door, finding rough yet solid wood under his touch. He reached forward with more confidence to fully grasp it and tentatively entered after John, eyebrows rising so high on his forehead that they nearly disappeared into his curls.

John stood at the edge of the bar, talking with a tall and completely bald man who leaned heavily against the counter. The two appeared to be getting on well, the man friendly and open as John spoke. Sherlock slowly made his way to John's side, eyes darting about at a dizzying pace as he attempted to take everything in at once."

"…just out in the alley. Did you hear anything out there this morning or have any rough folk pass through?"

"None of my folk have said anything about it, no. Corner's a bit daft, but he's not entirely stupid. He'd know better than to let something happen without telling me or contacting Hannah about it. But you know how it is now, John – we're hardly as careful as we were before, and most of his folk are locked up or long dead. Mudblood on their heads, you said? Are you certain?"

John gave a jerk of a nod, mouth pressed into a tense line. "I'm positive, Tom. I've seen this before – this is Death Eaters, and ones who have been at it before."

"John?" Sherlock finally spoke, his confusion radiating out in waves just through the single word. "What is this?"

Jolting around, John could hardly do more than gape up at Sherlock while the man at the bar said, "Oh, pardon there, sir. I'll just be with you in a mo."

"Hold off, Tom." John waved a hand absentmindedly at his companion, walking up to Sherlock with uncertainty in his eyes. "Er…Sherlock? How, erm, how exactly did you, well…_get in here_?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock demanded, his irritation flaring in the unfamiliar sensation of not understanding. "I followed you in, John, what do you think?"

John's jaw worked silently, eventually able to let out a single syllable. "What?"

Sherlock sighed, his usual air of being highly put upon by the stupidity of humanity radiating from the sound. "You heard me, John, and you know how tedious I find repetition. Now kindly elaborate on just how a dilapidated, abandoned building somehow transformed into a slightly less dilapidated pub."

"Wait, is he a – " Tom interrupted himself to stumble around the counter, wrinkled hands groping about for a wooden cane that stood close by. "Bloody hell, John, you know you can't just go round bringing Muggles in! You've been out of touch for a bit, but you can't have forgotten that!"

"But I didn't bring him in," John mused, a faint crinkle of a bewildered grin at the corner of his mouth. "He just followed. Sherlock, you just _followed_."

"Tedious. What did you call me?"

John's face turned stern and his shoulders set themselves in a sturdy pose, his head bobbing in a nod to himself as he met Sherlock's eyes. "No, not now. We've a case on now. Focus, Sherlock – dead bodies, remember?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he considered. With a reluctant sigh, he turned back to Tom to question him. "This isn't over, John Watson. Now, do you own this establishment?"

"Not anymore, but I keep things orderly when she's off at school," Tom replied, his hairless, wrinkled head cocked to the side in confusion. "I'm afraid I didn't notice anything off. Just the usual crowd about today, and most came and went through Diagon Alley."

"Diagon Alley?" Sherlock turned to a thoughtful looking John. "I've never heard of it."

"Probably for good reason," John muttered with a shake of his head. "Mind stopping out with us to see if you recognize the victims, Tom?"

"Not at all. Oye, Corner!" A brown haired head popped up from the other end of the bar, the man quickly shooting John and Sherlock a hello as he approached. "Mind the bar for a bit? I'll be back in a tick."

They led a hobbling Tom out to the alley, where he carefully looked over the trio of bodies. He rose back to his feet with a creak and a groan, shaking his head. "Sorry, John, I've never seen them before in the Leaky. Are they some of us?"

"We're not sure of IDs yet, as far as I know," John replied before Sherlock could respond. Despite the fact that the case had the potential to draw even Sherlock's scattered attention, the constant allusions to John's unknown past caused his well-organized mind to refocus itself constantly. The words were like being thrust into a new country and forced to learn the language through interaction, some of it mixing together into a semblance of understanding but most of it meaning nothing without further context. He itched to learn more, to sit John or even Tom down and interrogate them like one of his suspects until they cracked. The lack of understanding was as uncomfortable as needing a fix, causing the same churning of anxiety and turmoil to simmer low in his stomach and make its way out until he felt as though it would burst from his fingertips in an attempt at escape. The feeling hadn't quite reached an uncontrollable state yet, but the buildup made Sherlock long to be done with the case so he could properly focus on it.

He was shaken from his thoughts by John saying his name. John's face slowly came into focus, the familiar half smile that crawled out at the left corner of his mouth making Sherlock rush back to the present even more quickly. He shook away the irritating rush of warmth that smile always caused to focus on John's words. "Ah, there he is. Enjoy that little trip into your bloody mind palace, did you? What're you thinking?"

With a huff, Sherlock replied, "Irrelevant. Send your friend back off on his merry way; he's of no use to us. He can hardly see a foot before his eyes, you can tell from the state of his trousers." He spun about to begin studying the bodies once more, vaguely hearing John apologize to the barkeep. By the time John's attention had properly returned to Sherlock, Tom was back in his inn and Sherlock was spouting out a string of deductions. "This first one lived in the neighbourhood, single bedroom flat, modest for his otherwise impressive occupation of business owner. T he woman and the other man were an item, friends of the first, all together for a small celebration between the three of them over the couple's recent engagement. None of their personal items were removed from the bodies, unless our murderer has a doubtful inclination towards OCD tendencies and ensured the bodies were returned to their former state of dress before they were disposed of. If you ask Lestrade, you'll discover this isn't the case, as his imbecile people pawed at the bodies in search of their wallets, which are in custody. Though the term etched into their foreheads is one I'm not familiar with, it was certainly meant to insult, a warning to others of similar dispositions to beware."

"No matter how many times I see it, it's always brilliant," John replied with a chuckle, instantly causing Sherlock to smile in reply.

"You flatter me as always, John. Now, what do you make of these burns?"

John let out a grunt as he lowered himself to his knees, jacket brushing Sherlock's shoulder on the way down. The pair stared down at the bodies, John reapplying a pair of fresh gloves to turn one of the blank faces in their direction. It would have been unnoticeable to anyone other than Sherlock that John was forced to take a steadying, deep breath before looking down into the face of the victim. "Not quite deep enough to be third degree, but a few in spots might be close. They're precise, probably done while they were passed out since there are few signs of any struggle on any of them. The burns aren't the cause of death, though."

Sherlock grunted his agreement, leaning forward until he was nose to nose with the dead man. His head cricked to the side, eyes squinting down at the etchings across his forehead. "Mudblood," he murmured, climbing over the dead man in a shadow of a gangly curly haired black widow. "Mudblood. What does it _mean_? What makes you worthy of the insult?"

"Oye, Sherlock!" Lestrade called out from the sundrenched opening to the alley. "You get anything out of that barkeep? And finish up in there, my people need to do their jobs!"

Sighing, he rose to his feet and breezed down to Lestrade. "By all means, your people are welcome to resume desecrating the crime scene. I've gained everything I could for the time being. What are their names?"

"The woman was Jemma Albright, and the men were Andrew Saxby and Colin Moore. All between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-two, locals of the area but originally from various towns about the country. Moore's place is just around the corner a bit – we're working on securing a warrant – and Albright and Saxby lived together not too far away. I've got people contacting friends and family to see what they might know."

Sherlock nodded and headed for the street, arm poised to call a cab. "Let me know as soon as you have that warrant. I want to be there when you search the flat." His eyes fell on John as the cab pulled up. "You aren't coming."

John jerked his head in the direction of the Leaky, stuffing his hands down deep into his trouser pockets. "Not now, no. I figure I ought to stop in for a bit, give Tom a proper hello since it's been so long. I'll be round later to see if I can help. I imagine you've mostly got a few hours of mind palace thinking on now anyway."

Shooting him a distracted nod, Sherlock climbed into the cab only to immediately roll down his window. "By the way, John, don't think this gets you off for your real reason at 221b. Particularly after this enlightening case of ours." Before John could reply, the cab took off.

"What was that all about, then?" Lestrade asked from John's shoulder. John breathed out a sigh, running his palm roughly down the side of his face.

"Long story. You set here?"

"Sure. I'll let the two of you know as soon as we get anything more. Say hello to Mary and Cecy for me, will you? I keep meaning to stop by and haven't been able to find the bloody time."

With a nod and a wave, John turned about and reentered the Leaky Cauldron, a mixed feeling of anxiety and fear running through him as he faced back into his past.


	5. Chapter 4

_Hey there, everyone. Sorry this has been such a long time coming - first I was out for a few days with a nasty stomach bug, then Christmas while working in retail happened, so it's been a mad few weeks. Hopefully things will start to calm down and I can update properly. Anyway, I don't mind telling you that I'm not a super big fan of this chapter. Usually I edit each chapter threeish times, once while I'm transferring it from hand written to typed and at least two times in more detail. I think I went through this specific chapter a good five or six times, including sending it to a friend. I'm pretty sure that I've done what I can with it, so let me know what you think._

Chapter Four

John always kept a spare stash of Floo Powder buried away in a small metal box at the back of a closet, mostly in case of emergencies rather than any expectation that he might actually want to use it. Mary had gone out for a few drinks with friends at John's insistence twenty minutes earlier, finally leaving him and Cecelia alone for at least a few hours. Normally John would have waited until she fell asleep before even thinking of performing any sort of magic in the flat, but Cecelia was fussy and he had no clue as to when Mary might exactly return. He needed to contact McGonagall as soon as possible, and he was better off getting the call done with now than try and test fate.

John built up the fire a bit, thankful that he had thought to connect it to the Floo network when they moved into the flat, and brought Cecelia with him as he sat cross-legged before the flames. She rested propped up in her portable seat, close by so that John could reach her if necessary but far enough away that she wasn't too close to the fire. He carefully pried the lid off the box, wincing at the screech the rusted metal let off as it was released, and stared down at the bright green powder. He ran a single finger through it, reminding himself of the sandy grains' texture, before shaking off his sentimental silliness and snatching up a handful. He shot a glance at Cecelia to ensure that she was settled and safe before tossing the powder into the flames, eyes lighting up briefly as he watched them change from orange to green.

Taking a deep gulp, John sent Cecelia a last reassuring smile and shoved his head into the flames, giving a shout of, "Minerva McGonagall's office!" before holding his breath. The sensation of communicating via Floo Powder had always been an uncomfortable adventure for him; given the option, he preferred nearly every other wizarding method of contacting someone. He didn't have access to an owl, however, and he knew his best chance of contacting her quickly was by owl or this, leaving him with little choice. His eyes clenched shut tighter as he felt the sensation of his head transporting while his body remained still. Eventually the feeling stilled enough for him to peek through his lids slightly. The immaculate floor of the Hogwarts headmistress' office swam into view, the legs of McGonagall's desk just barely in sight. John blinked the green flames out of his eyes and called out, "Professor?"

Footsteps carried across the stone room and a chair scraped across the stones. At the same level as his eyes, the view of shifting robes and simple black shoes settled and McGonagall's stoic face peered down at him. Despite his discomfort and unease, John couldn't help but grin up at her. He hadn't been the best at Transfiguration back at school, but he found the subject fascinating and worked at it diligently until he gained the required proficiency. Though not typically one to be overly blunt in her praise, John sensed her pride and pleasure at his work throughout his years.

"John Watson," she greeted, the suggestion of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "You're looking well."

"Professor," John nodded back, smile still plastered to his face. "You are as well. I admit I'm a bit surprised to see you still at Hogwarts."

"Yes, well, things became shockingly more calm ever since Potter and his friends led the way in disposing of Lord Voldemort." Her casual tilt of the head as she spoke caused John to chuckle. "Are you free for a brief chat? I'm available to have you pass through here or, if you give me a moment to call someone, I might come to you."

"It'd be best if you came here, actually. Besides, there's someone you might be interested in meeting."

Rising to her feet, she replied, "Very well. I'll call Longbottom up from his post and be with you momentarily." As she left the office, John pulled himself back through the fire, blinking blue gaze instantly gravitating to where he left Cecelia. She sat peacefully in the same spot, her head cricked to the side as she watched him with a curious expression. He smiled and scooped her into his arms, listening to her babbling up at him as he set about in pulling out the things for tea and setting water in the kettle. He swayed on the floor of the kitchen, speaking quietly to her, when he heard the flames in the fireplace roar slightly and footsteps step into the living room.

"Make yourself comfortable," John called out, finishing off the tea preparations and adjusting it all on a tray to carry out on a single arm. Before rejoining his former professor, he spared a glance down at the cooing round face in the crook of his arm. "Time to charm the robes off another family friend, my wee one. Be on your best behavior now, _Síleas_." John pushed off the counter, tray carefully balanced on his hip, and caught another great smile crossing his face as he joined McGonagall.

"Your friend was correct, then," she commented smoothly, a lilt of amusement in her voice. "You've done well for yourself, Dr. Watson. Who is this, then?"

"Minerva McGonagall, allow me to introduce Cecelia Gabrielle Watson. Cecy, say hello to your da's old professor."

Cecelia simply blinked at her in slight confusion, taking in the woman in strange clothes in their home. McGonagall leaned towards her, causing Cecelia's eyes to widen and a chubby fist to reach out towards her. With a soft smile, McGonagall offered her hand and Cecelia's curiosity beat out her uncertainty as they met in the middle. Automatically, Cecelia's smooth fingers grasped one wrinkled one of McGonagall's, fighting to bring it closer and examine it properly.

"She's a thoughtful little lass already," McGonagall commented in a low voice, studying Cecelia as Cecelia studied her. "She takes after that friend of yours in that regard."

John chuckled and set the tea tray aside. "Oh, I know. You'd think she was Sherlock's, the way she acts sometimes. At least we know what we're getting into, given how long Sherlock and I have been friends."

"Sherlock Holmes is a rather…unusual man, from the little I met of him." Cecelia released her grip, allowing McGonagall to return to her seat. "He seemed to take quite a bit of pleasure from his attempts to deduce me."

John groaned and chose a spot across from his professor, easing the dull ache in his bad shoulder by shifting Cecelia to the opposite arm. "I'm so sorry, Professor. God, if I'd have known you were looking for me, I could have saved you the trouble. Did he bother you terribly?"

"Not at all. I found him a rather interesting young man, I admit. Does he happen to know what you are, if you don't mind my asking?"

With an awkward shift in his seat, John grimaced. "Well, er, no, actually, he doesn't. I was in a bit of a bad spot when I met Sherlock, and had basically decided I was done with magic. The topic hasn't had a reason to come up until recently."

"Hopefully I haven't made matters problematic between the two of you. That certainly was not my intention by paying you that call. It would seem that the two of you get on quite extraordinarily, from what I have read of your many misadventures together."

He was able to keep the threat of a blush down to nothing more than a slight pink twinge high on his cheeks, but John felt certain McGonagall noticed it regardless. "Oh no, no need to apologize," he continued quickly. "I'm sure he would have figured it out eventually – honestly, I'm surprised it took this long. Actually, it was more something that happened today…I take it you know I help him consult on criminal cases?"

"Of course. You may have returned to the Muggle world, John, but that certainly doesn't mean I haven't kept track of you, though I may have had to call in a few favours from Mr. Potter and Miss Granger for help in perusing this Internet Muggles seem so fond of. From what I've gathered, you've been fairly successful since returning to London, despite the various hardships you've undergone. But what happened today?"

John explained the crime scene from that afternoon in a clinical tone, attempting to cover his feelings over their discoveries with his straightforward analysis of the facts. McGonagall listened without interruption, expression thoughtful. Despite his best attempts otherwise, John felt his throat catch as he described the word etched into the victims' foreheads, causing a concerned furrow to develop between Cecelia's dusting of brown eyebrows. She cooed up at him in worry, fingers grasping out at him in a bid for comfort. John shot her a tentative grin and moved a hand to pass through her soft hair, bringing comfort to both and allowing him to continue. The only sign he had that McGonagall was even listening came when he mentioned Sherlock following John into the Leaky Cauldron.

"That is, to put it simply, utterly impossible," she stated with a jerking shake of her head. "A Muggle would be unable to even see the Leaky, let alone enter it properly unescorted. He ought to have only had the view of an empty abandoned building, even if he entered it with your encouragement. The Muggle Repelling Charms simply wouldn't allow such a thing."

"That's what I thought," John replied with enthusiasm. "Honestly, it's a miracle the place was that empty at that time of day so he didn't see anything off. Besides, he was on a case, so most of his focus was on that. But what could have let him get in, then? Could the charms be wearing off?"

"It's certainly possible, though I doubt it. Tom himself checks the charms daily, I know for a fact, but obviously he is getting on in years, not unlike myself, and his sharpness may be leaving him. I'll pay him a call to see what he thinks before I return to Hogwarts as well as stop by to discuss the matter with Hannah Longbottom."

"They were up, I could tell, but it's been too long since I've dealt deeply with magic to tell how well off they were. Anyway, Tom didn't notice anything off with the case, and I didn't recognize them or their names. 'Course, if they're Muggleborns, their surnames wouldn't pop out at me anyway."

"You said Albright for the girl and Sacksby and Moore for the boys, I believe? There was a Sacksby in Ravenclaw a few years back, but I'm almost certain the student was an only child. Beyond that, the names don't particularly stand out to me. If it was a direct attack on the siblings of Muggleborn students, it would make more sense, but why brand Muggles in such a way if they are innocent of connections to the wizarding world?"

John sighed and shook his head. "Not a damn clue, Professor, and as far as I know, the Muggle authorities are the only ones involved right now. After I spoke with you, I planned on trying Harry to let him know of the situation as well. He'll most likely want to get some Aurors to investigate in case it is an attack on Muggleborns' families."

"An excellent suggestion. Coincidentally, this may have a connection to what I originally called you at Baker Street about. What did Mr. Holmes tell you of my visit?"

"We haven't really had the time to discuss it, actually, what with me being away and the case popping up today. I believe it was just that you had come and he had questions, which is probably Sherlock speech for, 'I've dug up everything I possibly can so you're my next line of inquiry.'"

"Yes, he seems like that kind of sort," McGonagall replied with a small snort. Almost instantly, however, she returned to her usual sober self, regarding John carefully from across the room. "I know the subject of your parents is a sensitive subject, John, and I'm loathe to bring back what's best to be left in the past, but unfortunately I have little choice in the matter. My news is somewhat good, however – it would appear we have more concrete evidence on who was responsible for their deaths. From what you've just told me, it seems as though I came to inform you none too soon."

John felt his hands begin to jerk in a stuttering resonance of memories best left behind, convincing him to return Cecelia to her cradle. He clasped them into tight fists a few times, carefully evening out his breathing. "What do we know?"

She reached into a pocket of her robes to draw out an envelope. John's name was written across the front in a familiar, messy scrawl. He took it in slight unease, sliding a finger across the top to pull out jotted notes in the form of some sort of informal report. "I received this from Harry the day before I came to call on you via owl. The attack happened a month ago and had two victims, an aunt and cousin of a Gryffindor we had years ago. Harry recognized the method of killing used in the attack – Muggle victims, all with some sort of connection to the wizarding world through blood relatives, with burns along the entirety of the body that appear to be some altered form of Incendio, and _Mudblood _carved into the forehead. He wasn't entirely certain how to contact you, which is why he came to me in the hopes that I might know more. Honestly, it's been so long since the original attacks occurred, I think we all simply hoped that those responsible had been killed themselves."

John hummed his agreement and scanned over the report, lowering it between limp hands once finished. "They believe one of them is a metamorphmagus?"

"Various Aurors who caught the individuals in the act said one of the wizards changed his or her appearance half a dozen times before escaping. They dropped their wand at the scene, so it was nearly impossible for them to transfigure themselves, particularly in such rapid succession. Harry suspects the sudden arrival of the authorities resulted in the wizard panicking and briefly losing control of their skill."

"Just like Teddy when he's caught up in a bad spot," John agreed. He tucked the thought of his young friend away for the moment to be considered later. "So there was no way to tell who any of these people were."

"Not from appearance, at least. Ollivander's nephew is working on the wand, attempting to determine where and by whom it was produced, but we do know for certain that it was not one of their pieces."

"So we've got at least one Death Eater loose again in London taking down Muggles like they did almost twenty years before." John sighed, rubbing roughly at his face. "Bloody brilliant."

"I received another owl from Harry today with information on the wand – aspen wood, eight and a half inches long, with a unicorn tail hair core. An unusual combination, given the aspen's nature, but the addition of the unicorn hair has left the Aurors almost unable to use it due to its loyalty to its owner."

"Right." John slapped his hands on his thighs and scraped at them with his palms, blue eyes watching McGonagall with determination. "What would Harry like me to do? I won't let these people do what's been done to me, not if I can help it."

"John, I don't believe Harry intended for you to get involved directly. He knew you were back in the Muggle world and intended it as a warning, from what I understand. He doesn't wish to bring you back into the wizarding world if it's not what you want, nor does he wish to do you harm by bringing up old memories."

"He can't possibly expect me to just sit by while my parents' murderers go offing more Muggles!" John replied with an incredulous laugh. "The man Harry knew may have been a hell of a lot younger, Professor, but in spirit he's not much changed. I'm a soldier as much as he, if not more so, and inaction is not my usual method."

"I'm well aware of your skills, as is Harry, but he knows you have a life outside of our world now, one with friends and a family. He simply doesn't wish for you to become a victim to these individuals a second time if he can help it."

"If he really wanted to help, he'd let me do something more than sit aside waiting!" John's voice rose to an angry shout of its own accord, abruptly waking a sleeping Cecelia. Instantly she began to cry, and John's rage dimmed as he picked her up to shush her, muttering quiet reassurances into her ear. His forehead met hers in a sigh that was barely more than a breath. "I'm sorry, Professor. It's been a rougher week than expected, as pathetic of an excuse as that is."

John felt the concern etched in the set of McGonagall's body as she watched the pair of them across the room. "It is completely expected and more than understandable. I do not believe Harry doubts your skill here, John, but you must remember what it is you are protecting. You have gone through the feeling of loss a thousand times over; those who consider you to be a friend would like to help you avoid more."

John nodded his forehead against Cecelia's, causing her to giggle as his blonde-gray hair brushed over her skin. "I know, really. I've just never been much for helping myself when there are others who need it more."

McGonagall hummed her agreement. "A true member of your house, as you've always been." She rose to her feet, wrinkled hand smoothing over her robes. "I'd best return. Should I contact Mr. Potter or shall you?"

Lifting his head from Cecelia's, John turned back to face McGonagall fully. "I'll take care of it. He should know about our case anyway, particularly if only our authorities are involved." He shifted Cecelia to one arm in order to extend his hand to McGonagall. "It's been a pleasure to see you again, Professor, even with the topics we had to discuss."

She took the offered hand and gave it a firm shake. "I'm glad to see you doing well for yourself finally, John Watson, despite everything. Please give Mr. Holmes my regards." Her eyes lit once again with a tiny spark of mischief. "Do let him know I'm intrigued to hear what he's found out about Floo Powder. I imagine his thoughts are delightfully imaginative." With a nod in reply to John's laugh, she left him and Cecelia alone with a sharp crack as she Apparated away.


	6. Chapter 5

_Dear friends, I am sorry this has taken so long. Real life once again interrupted. However, my application for graduate school, which has taken up most of my free time over the past month, is submitted (!) so I can get back to this. Which is particularly exciting because *trumpets blare* this is a hella important chapter. Yes, friends - Sherlock is about to get the surprise of his life. Also, I am pretty sure that next chapter involves Sherlock interacting with Cecelia, so look forward to that. Anywho, not much more to say, so enjoy and let me know what you think! I have absolutely adored everyone's comments so far; you're lovely, all of you._

Chapter Five

"What do you mean _we've been taken off the case?_"

Sherlock became his own personal volcano of fury in Lestrade's office as the man dealing with the brunt of his fire sat awkwardly behind his desk, shifting in his seat in a mixture of discomfort and alarm. Lestrade scratched at his ear while Sherlock huffed in breaths through his nose, attempting to at least give the impression that he was calm.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't know what to tell you," Lestrade attempted to placate without an ounce of success. "They've taken us all off it, moved up to someone in a higher position. Don't think I'm not just as upset at the lost opportunity." Indeed, Lestrade looked more strained than usual, the dark circles below his eyes hollow grooves that sucked the color from his cheeks. From the tight set of his jaw, John could tell he was fuming at losing the case, though conveying his anger in less immature ways than Sherlock.

John remained silent through the entire exchange, lacking the heart to apologize despite the fact that they couldn't know he was at least partially at fault for what was happening. After talking to McGonagall, John rang up the last phone number he had for the Potters, thankfully still the same. After catching up with him a bit, he told Harry everything that happened at the crime scene, including Sherlock being able to enter the Leaky Cauldron. Though Harry had no idea of how such a thing could have happened and encouraged John to ask Sherlock himself, he thanked him for the information and told him that his Aurors would pick up the case from the Muggle police. When John tried to ask if they'd learned anything more on the deaths McGonagall spoke of, Harry could only lament the lack of additional knowledge.

"It's odd, John. I don't like it." Harry's voice tinged with worry and John could tell he was shaking his head on the other end of the line. "Just watch out for yourself and those close to you, all right? I know they've targeted you before, and there's no way to know if they'll do it again."

John came away from the conversation relieved that the Aurors were taking care of the matter but tense knowing that Sherlock would not take kindly to having such a fascinating case snatched right out of his grasp. He was proving John's worries sound from the agitated way he paced about Lestrade's office.

"What do you mean, moved it on to someone higher? You're one of the only halfway decent DIs in this city, a fact they are more than aware of – there isn't anyone bloody higher to pass it off to! How can they possibly dangle such a fascinating case _right before me_ only to snatch it back before I've even had the chance to grasp at it?"

"I don't fucking know, all right?" Lestrade's voice rose to a shout just as he clambered to his feet, hands grasping heavily at his hips. He brushed a hand through his silver hair with a sigh. "Look, maybe someone wasn't too keen on having you on the case. I know you've done your time and all that, but the fact is that you _did_ murder someone. If you weren't so bloody useful, the force probably would have made me kick you out on your arse years ago. You're just going to have to let this one go, mate."

Sherlock snorted, yanking out a chair to slouch low in the seat. "Let it go. How horridly quiet it must be for the rest of you if you can simply _let it go_. Even if I hadn't been desperate for a case to begin with, I would have jumped at the chance to investigate this one."

"Look, Sherlock, it's done," John finally said in a coaxing voice. "I'm sure something interesting will come along soon and you'll have forgotten this one had even been taken away."

Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock sent John a small grin as he steepled his fingers together. "Hmm, perhaps. Besides, I do have something to occupy my time until the right case comes up. I suppose I'll simply have to devote all of my time to the matter of investigating the past life of one Dr. John Hamish Watson."

"Oh God, what have I done?" John muttered to himself, stifling his comment with a groan. Sherlock launched to his feet with a wicked smile, causing John to shoot Lestrade a farewell as he jogged after.

He was still awake when Sherlock texted him the next evening, taking advantage of the relative peace after Mary put Cecelia to bed to catch upon his blog. Mostly it was going back to spruce things up, looking after long forgotten typos and responding to comments when his cell buzzed next to him, nearly slipping off the table from the force of the movement. He snatched it up just in time and couldn't stop his grin when he saw it came from Sherlock. It was the first time he had messaged him in a while, and John would never admit aloud that he missed the familiar warmth that normally came from it happening often. Hoping it was something new and interesting to distract them both, he opened the message to read it.

_Uncovered something important and need to investigate. Come to Baker Street immediately. SH_

Frowning at Sherlock's vagueness, John shut down his laptop and returned it to its usual spot at his side table. Mary was in the kitchen preparing Cecelia's nightly bottles when he found her. "Sherlock's got something on and needs my help – you two all set if I kip on over there for a bit?"

"Heaven forbid I attempt to keep you from the great Sherlock Holmes," Mary replied with a chuckle as she rinsed her hands. She purposefully kept her head down, but even John could notice the twinge of sadness etched on the part her face he could see that accompanied her words. "Go on, off with you, then, and be careful. Give me a ring if you don't think you'll be back tonight."

"Right." John reached to pull on his jacket, digging about for his keys and following Mary's lead to avoid eye contact. He tried to tell himself that the clenching he felt deep in his stomach was from guilt over leaving her on her own again rather than the exciting prospect of a late night stakeout with Sherlock. "Hopefully he's just bored and wants something more to amuse him than talking to his skull. I expect I'll be back soon."

"Take your gun, just in case!" she called as he marched into his office and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. Inside sat his gun and a long, slender piece of wood, standing out mahogany against the darker grain of his desk's surface. He shoved the gun down into its usual place but considered the wand, eyeing it somewhat doubtfully. It had been years since he properly used it, but he felt a strange itch in his hands to bring it along as well. With a shrug, he shoved it up the sleeve on his right arm, expertly strapping on a holster and securing the wand in place. He made sure there wasn't an imprint of its shape before relocking the drawer and stepping back out.

"Already ahead of you," John said to Mary, giving her a wave as he headed out the door. "Don't wait up!" With that, he dashed out into the night, hailing down a cab and ordering him in crisp tones to Baker Street. There weren't many cars out that night, making the trip a short and relatively uneventful one. He popped his head down the hall to send Mrs. Hudson a brief hello before heading upstairs, finding Sherlock seated in his armchair with his legs crossed and his hands steepled. His eyes shot open at John's approach, his body replying by jumping up to yank on his coat.

"Excellent, John, just in time. Though I do wish you'd kept the cab, despite how dull the streets are tonight. We've no time to lose."

Sherlock nearly flew down the stairs, he was so fast, darting out into the street before John could even close the upstairs door behind him. He nearly missed the cab Sherlock already summoned and could only let out a huff of agitation and subtle excitement as they took off. "So what is it, then? Found yourself another case?"

"You could say that. We're meeting someone." He refused to say anything more as they drove through the city, streetlights casting an odd, otherworldly glow over everything. Eventually the cab pulled up beside an unfamiliar park, hardly even lit along its edges let alone inside, and Sherlock tossed a few bills at the cabbie before climbing out. John followed, a sense of trepidation settling in his gut.

"Where are we?" he asked, glancing around for a street marker. None stood nearby, and the park itself appeared to have no obvious sign giving it a name. John stared into the bleak trees as his feeling of unease grew.

"It doesn't matter – we need to get to the meeting spot before they do." Without warning, Sherlock darted into the darkness, slipping through the trees with unnatural ease. John struggled to follow, his progress significantly less graceful, and muttered curses under his breath. Figuring that whoever they were meeting would hear his elephantine scrambling regardless, he pulled out his phone and chose a torch app Mary had added, bringing an abrupt and enormous brightness into the otherwise eerie blankness. Even with the light, however, he struggled to keep track of Sherlock, the man's progress more feline than human in his ability to crawl through the trees almost silently. John was forced to assume he had been through here before.

"Who are we meeting? Sherlock! Slow down! Where in the bloody fuck are you taking me?"

"Hush, John. At this rate, half of London will know we're here." John could hear him somewhere to his left and headed off into that direction, intent upon catching him up until the sudden appearance of a curly head nearly scared him out of his pants. "Come along, we're nearly there."

They continued for another few minutes, Sherlock leading with John lighting the way. Eventually they trudged through a tiny clearing, hardly large enough to be considered more than a break in the trees. Sherlock's head darted about like a dog on the hunt searching out his prey as he surveyed the area. He gave a decisive nod and dragged John back into the undergrowth, nearly tripping him as he pulled him down to kneel on the spongy grass below. John considered asking questions about what exactly they were getting into here, but a glance at the focused expression on Sherlock's face told him the man was in his mind palace. He took the moment to watch him in the near darkness, only part of his face visible in the bits of starlight fighting their way through the branches. The lack of light only helped to accentuate the sharp dips and curves of his face, and the slight twitches across his skin as he thought danced in the beams. John noticed the signs of Sherlock returning to the present in enough time to school his expression into thoughtful consideration, so that when he turned to glance at John he was simply studying the clearing silently.

"Make sure you turn off your phone," Sherlock mumbled in a low voice that caused John to jerk in surprise at the sudden noise. He frowned and raised an eyebrow.

"Why would I need to turn off my phone? Which isn't going to happen, by the way, particularly since you won't tell me what's going to happen so I at least have some clue about what I'm getting into."

Sherlock sighed deeply, the noise he let out as he did one of long suffering. "I haven't told you because I know you wouldn't approve and it's easier than dealing with your monologue that basically amounts to 'a bit not good.' And at the very least, turn it on silent and put it in your jeans pocket so it can't be seen or heard."

John did as he was told with a roll of his eyes. Though it was doubtful Sherlock could have seen the action, John heard him let out a small chuckle. John shoved his shoulder gently into Sherlock's, a playful motion they had become comfortable with since his return, and Sherlock reached out to give the arm a squeeze. John was just opening his mouth to make a comment when Sherlock squeezed again, his blunt fingernails digging somewhat painfully into John's arm. Shooting his head up to look into the clearing, John saw three figures begin to gradually approach from three different directions.

From the shapes and sizes of their bodies, they all appeared to be male. One of them was slightly taller than the other two, and from the authoritative stance he took when he stopped, John guessed him to be the leader. They all wore dark clothing, covering almost all of their features, black hoods folded over their heads to block out their faces. The tall one's hood jerked as he nodded to the other two and lowered himself to sit cross legged on the ground. The others followed his motions, sitting directly in front of John and Sherlock's hiding spot and facing the first man.

"I haven't seen anything about it in the papers," the first man began, his voice quiet but carrying easily through the near silent dark. "Don't tell me you've backed out on me, boys."

"Oye, not a chance." The second voice was definitely male, but higher pitched than the first. John guessed he couldn't be more than his late teens. "We did a right fine job of it, didn't we, Travers?"

The third man merely grunted in reply. The first leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hood swishing back and forth as he regarded them. "Excellent. And you left them where they could be found?"

"Yep, right outside the Leaky and right in front of their bleeding noses."

At the first mention of the Leaky Cauldron, John instantly understood. He reflexively reached for his weapon, but instead of his gun for once it was to the wand tucked up his sleeve. "Sherlock," he hissed, hardly even moving his lips to speak. "This isn't our case. We shouldn't be here!"

"And let the murderers get away from right in front of us? Come now, John." Sherlock's voice left little room for argument, but it made John even more uneasy. His attention returned to the three men just as the second was finishing explaining where they dumped the bodies.

"Ha, clever of you, Smith, I'll give you that. But something's gone amiss; Holmes has got the Ministry involved."

John had to hold in his gasp as his head darted around to Sherlock, who was nearly leaning forward into the bush in his intensity to hear more. The deep furrow between his eyebrows told John that the news was just as baffling to Sherlock as it was to John, but even so, he didn't feel particularly reassured.

"But that's impossible! I was there watching from across the street when they found 'em, it was only the Met, I swear! I checked 'em all before I swanned off, not a wizard in sight!"

John flinched when he said the word, all of the confirmation on the men's identities solidified more than enough for him. He pulled at Sherlock's collar to bring his ear close to John's lips, allowing him to hardly even breathe to be heard. "Out. Now. The both of us. We've seen enough." Sherlock pulled out of John's hold and waved him away, eagerly moving forward to continue listening. As he did, a few curls snagged in the branch directly in front of his face, causing an echoing crack that sounded like a bomb in the near quiet. The three men in the clearing jumped to their feet in a rush, the unmistakable shape of wands pointing in their direction.

"All right, who's in there?" the second man called with a sneer. "If you show yourself, maybe we'll do you the courtesy of killing you before we mark you up."

"Sherlock, _get down_." John's voice was deadly quiet and stern, having instantly reverted into the memory of being a captain at the threat. Sherlock flinched slightly at the sharpness but didn't move. The tall man slowly inched forward, wand pointed directly at Sherlock, and squinted into the darkness.

"Lumos," he muttered, and a soft glow shot out from the wand tip into the trees, cutting through the branches to illuminate John and Sherlock's figures. Sherlock's wide eyed and gaping expression of surprise might have been amusing to John if there wasn't a possibly deadly wizard with his wand in Sherlock's face. Just as the other two men raised their wands, John dove for Sherlock to push him completely to the ground, his body draped over Sherlock's.

"I said fucking _get down_!" John shouted as sparks of varying colours lit up the clearing. He scrambled at his sleeve to wrench out his own wand, muttering a quick, "Protego Totalum!" as he swept his arm in an arcing circle around them. A brief silvery bubble hovered over them before the sounds of the spells abruptly hollowed. "Stay here," John sternly said in Sherlock's ear before jumping to his feet, flinging a spell at one of the men.

"Oye, he's one of us!" the second man yelped as John's spell grazed his arm. Body working automatically, John sent a constant volley of curses at the men, sending at least one sprawling to the ground before they could respond. He was briefly distracted by Sherlock rising shakily to his knees, breaking the already feeble protection spell around him.

The first man saw Sherlock's movement and turned his wand on him. The shape of the words he was about to shout had barely even formed before John shot a shield charm at Sherlock followed directly by a stunner at the first man. He crumbled as it hit him in the chest and John watched as the last one, sensing his inevitable defeat, dashed out into the darkness. Sherlock, meanwhile, lay crumpled on the ground.

"_Sherlock!_" John shouted, dashing forward and letting the shield fall to examine him. "Jesus, Sherlock, when I tell you to stay down, you fucking need to _stay down_!"

"John!" Sherlock gasped out his name, his eyes wide and blown. The sight instantly called back the Sherlock of Baskervilles to John's mind, and frankly he couldn't blame him for the terror. "What…that…John!"

"Right then, up we go," John said, putting an arm around Sherlock's shoulders to help him to his feet. He wobbled a bit but stood, body easily malleable to John's will when he moved him to lean against a tree. Once he was certain that Sherlock could keep control over himself for the time being, he went to inspect the men on the ground. "What am I going to do with you, then?" he asked himself, staring down at the stunned pair of wizards. He glanced at Sherlock resting on his right, mouth gaping open and skin so pale that it nearly gave off its own light in the reflection of the moon. Sherlock shakily raised a hand and ran it through his curls.

"I hate to do this to you, John, and really, I consider myself a man of fairly strong fortitude in the face of a challenge, but to be perfectly honest, I'm feeling particularly light headed at the moment and I hope you'll forgive me if I pass out in a moment. Right, sorry, _when_ I pass out." Having barely gotten his long winded warning out, he fell completely limp into John's arms.

"_Jesus_," John let out with a huff of breath as he attempted to catch him and lower him to the ground. "Can't even bloody faint without a damn speech about it first." He gave Sherlock a quick once over to make sure it was only shock that had knocked him out. Other than a few cuts from being shoved about in the dark by John and a light gash on his arm where the spell grazed him, he appeared to be fine. Nodding his satisfaction, John let him be for the moment and returned his attention to the pair of stunned men. Upon further inspection, it appeared that he had hit the leader and the younger man, letting the final male who never spoke escape. Given the number of years it had been since he used his wand, let alone duel, it could have been worse. He pulled out his phone and dialed Harry's number, shooting some ropes from the tip of his wand to bind his suspects at their wrists as it rang. Luckily he'd added Harry's number to his cell permanently, and he answered barely after the third ring.

"John? Is everything all right?"

"Erm, relatively speaking. You'll have to send out some Aurors for me, though, Harry. It appears I've got us some suspects."


	7. Chapter 6

_I lied about Cecelia and Sherlock hanging in this chapter. There's at least one more chapter before that happens. But this chapter is extra long because John gets to confront Sherlock about being a wizard. So fun times? XD Anyway, thanks again for everyone's amazing responses to this, I really appreciate it. It's dreadfully fun seeing everyone's reactions. :) Let me know what you think!_

Chapter Six

"Rennervate."

Sherlock slowly felt himself returning to consciousness, a bit fuzzy and uncertain of where he was and how he got there. After a few moments, he blinked his eyes open to meet John's, concern etched across his expression. From the angle where he lay, it appeared that he was spread out on the couch, though the last thing he remembered was being out in the park. With John. And the suspects. Shooting dazzling sparks of light at each other. With…sticks of wood?

"John," Sherlock breathed before his face screwed up in confusion. "What the hell was that?"

"Good morning to you too, then," John replied with a sigh, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the coffee table with a soft moan. "I take it you remember?"

"It's morning?!" Sherlock yelped and straightened far too quickly, causing the room to spin. John's hand shot out to firmly grasp his arm, steadying him and forcing his back against the armrest.

"Jesus, it was a figure of speech. It's only ten, relax, I've just come back from helping Harry take care of things."

"What on earth does your sister have to do with any of this? And what happened to the suspects? We need to contact Lestrade immediately!"

"Would you just bloody _relax _for half a second and let me explain?" John snapped with a chuckle and a grin. Sherlock sent him a scathing glare but remained quiet. "First off, no, not Harry my sister, Harry my friend. This one's actually a bloke and he's in charge of the Aurors, a sort of a wizard police force. They have the two men I stunned in custody, but we weren't able to catch the one who ran – probably Apparated the second he had the chance, he could be anywhere by now. And we will not be informing Lestrade because a) this isn't his case and b) I really don't feel like explaining everything to him as well as to you, at least not right now. You'll make it difficult enough on your own, thanks very much."

Throughout John's explanation, Sherlock's mouth gradually gaped open more and more in what would have been a comical manner if matters hadn't been so serious. Once John was finished, Sherlock blinked a few times in dazed confusion before clearing his throat. "I…did not understand some of those words, John; you may need to say that again." John wished he'd had a recorder handy for Sherlock's reply. He'd love nothing better than to toss out a reminder of the one time Sherlock admitted to not understand and encouraged repetition all in the same breath. Rather than asking him to say it again into his phone's speaker, John chuckled and got to his feet.

"If we're going to have this conversation now, I'm not doing it until I've properly checked that scratch of yours and made us an entire pot of tea. Stay there."

He left behind his wand on the coffee table when he set off into the kitchen, partially to see what Sherlock would make of it and partially because he was no longer used to walking about with it strapped to his side. Sherlock cocked his head at the wand with mild curiosity, fingers twitching out at it on the couch cushion, encouraging him to reach out and grab it. Unfortunately, the same moment he raised a hand out to do so was the same moment John returned to the living room.

"Ah, no, sorry Sherlock, I'm afraid not," John said smoothly, setting down the tea things and snatching the wand up. "At least not without a bit of background. Now give me your arm."

Sherlock offered the arm without protest, his interest apparently strong enough that it beat out the willfulness of his nature. In an automatic move that came from having his wand in his hand, John summoned his medic bag with a casual flick, sorting through it for some supplies to clean the area before inspecting it. It was a bit deeper than it originally appeared, but wouldn't have any lasting damages. John healed the outside with a quick, "Episky," that nearly caused Sherlock to launch off the couch in alarm.

"Shit, sorry, I forgot!" John grabbed Sherlock just before he headed for the floor, rubbing comforting circles into the side of his neck. "It's just a minor healing charm, Sherlock, relax. It's supposed to feel like that; it means the magic's working."

Sherlock jerked his head in an awkward sign of understanding as he shook under John's touch. Gradually the burning sensation edged into near freezing before tapering off completely. John waited until the shaking subsided before releasing Sherlock's neck, his cheeks tinting a soft pink at the intimacy of its placement.

"You did better than Harry did the first time I tried to heal her," John stated with a small smile as he gently wrapped a bandage around Sherlock's arm. "It was during Christmas break my fifth year of school; I remember because I'd just started studying with Madame Pomfrey the month before. I thought she'd blow my eardrums out with how loud she screamed, and she refused to speak to me for at least a week. Kind of nice, actually." He chuckled and ducked his head to catch Sherlock's lowered eyes. "How's that? Feel a bit better?" All Sherlock could do was nod.

John set about preparing them both cups of tea, making sure Sherlock actually took a sip of his before setting about building up a fire. By the time he finished, Sherlock was looking significantly less terrified, though he had brought his knees up to his chest to rest his teacup on them. John sat back down beside him on the couch and took a few sips of his own tea before finally asking, "Right. Better?"

Sherlock's nod this time was much more confident. "Yes. "But John…what exactly _are _you?"

"A wizard," John replied without preamble. "Technically a Muggleborn wizard, but still. Wizard all the same."

"A wizard." Sherlock could practically feel Sherlock's doubt fluttering in the air between them. "As in magic and fairy tales. That's not possible, John."

"What's that phrase you always use? Something about eliminating the impossible and what's left is the truth? Care to test out that theory here?"

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, but nodded his head in agreement. "You make a fair point, besides the fact that I've seen it. But it wouldn't be the first time I've been fooled into believing something spectacular that I couldn't explain on first sight. What's to say I haven't been drugged and am imagining all of this?"

"I suppose that's just something you'll have to wait and see on," John relented. He took a thoughtful sip of his tea, free arm slung over the back of the couch just barely out of reach of the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Does it feel the same as Baskervilles? Or, you know…before."

"Not at all, which is what makes it feel so peculiar." Sherlock's head zipped around to stare over at John so fast that a curl at the base of his scull just brushed along John's finger. "I've been drugged countless times, by countless means and substances, but beyond your claims, this is the least impressive feeling of being drugged I've ever experienced, if I am in fact drugged. It's a rather dull sensation, if truth be told."

John chuckled. "Sorry you're so disappointed in your potential drugging. I'm surprised you're latching on to that theory rather than asking me more questions though."

"I'm getting to that. Even if I am drugged, this is all rather much to take in." Sherlock returned his attention to John's wand, which he had placed on the couch between them. It was a fairly common looking wood, smooth until the last few inches where a crisscrossing design had been etched into it, and was as well taken care of as John's gun. Sherlock shifted just enough so that he could look directly over at John through his fringe, their eyes instantly meeting and holding. "What's it made of?"

"Cedar. It's nine and a quarter inches, with a phoenix feather for a core. Mr. Ollivander enjoyed pointing out the fact that it was an interesting sign that such a common wood held such an unusual core. Always thought he was a bit daft."

"It suits you – unassuming front holding a titan inside." Sherlock craned his head about to study the wand from a different angle, careful to avoid touching it. "I take it Ollivander is a wandmaker."

"Best in the UK. Nearly everyone at Hogwarts got their wands from him."

At the mention of Hogwarts, Sherlock's head shot back up once more. "Hogwarts is a school, then. I'd gathered as much from that McGonagall woman. It's the wizarding school you attended."

Though it wasn't actually a question, John answered it anyway. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, yes. It's the only wizard school actually on the British Isles – there are a few more on the continent, obviously – but it's considered the best. I went there for seven years."

Sherlock's face screwed up in thought. "Seven, stereotypical number associated with magic. Bit of an odd number for years for schooling…you're considered an adult at age seventeen?"

"Right on. Students usually got their letters of acceptance around eleven and would finish up at around seventeen, just in time to get their Apparation license."

"What were you required to do to gain admittance?"

John shifted slightly in his seat, pulling his leg up to rest across his knee while he considered. "You didn't really have to _do _anything. Magic's something you're born with, and the Ministry knows if you're a wizard whether you've got a background in it or not. They send out the letters to anyone with the proper skill, regardless of whether the kids know it or not. Otherwise you'd never have any Muggleborns."

"Muggle." Sherlock tested the word on his tongue, grimacing slightly at the sound of it. "Those without magical skill, from what I understand. Muggleborn wizards come from a pair of Muggle parents."

"Exactly. Typically there is some magic back in the Muggleborns' lineage; Mum and I checked it out before she died and apparently we've got some great uncle twice removed or some such rubbish that was a wizard and it somehow managed to pass on to me. I'm the only living Watson who's a wizard, though, and the only one on either side of the known family to be one."

Sherlock's voice was almost too low to be heard. "I cannot imagine Harry's thrilled about that."

John sighed and finished off his tea, settling the cup on the table with a dull thunk. "That's one way to put it. Let's just say she and I have never really got on since I got my letter. She's had a rough time of it."

"You blame yourself for her alcoholism, since she didn't begin drinking until after you started school. You're so adamant to help her overcome it because, according to your logic, you were the one to cause it." Sherlock's eyes were sharp with veiled concern when they met John's. "It wasn't your fault, John. You cannot be blamed for being born what you are."

"Yeah, I know, really," John sighed. "Can't blame a bloke for trying, though."

They both fell silent, each ruminating on his own thoughts. The only sounds in the flat came from the fire and faint noises of Mrs. Hudson moving in her flat below. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knees thoughtfully, curving mouth pinched into a frown. "There's still something I don't understand. Why are you here? Why would you be sitting on the couch of 221b if you're a wizard?"

John stared into the fire, refusing to look at Sherlock as he spoke in case he decided to read more into him than he was prepared for. "There was a wizard, years ago, that decided to try to take power over the wizarding world. Tom Riddle, more commonly known as Lord Voldemort. He was supposedly defeated once, back before I'd ever gotten into everything, by a man named Harry Potter. Well, I say man – at the time, Harry was only a one-year-old baby." John paused to crick his head thoughtfully, a furrow growing between his eyebrows. "Haven't really thought much into what that must have been like. I never met Lily and James, Harry's parents, but I know plenty of people who were close to them. It's strange to think of someone not much older than Cecelia managing to destroy the greatest dark wizard of our time." John shook himself from his brief reverie to continue. "Anyway, that was that, as far as anyone could tell, and a few years later I was at Hogwarts. I decided to train as a Healer, their version of a doctor, and was considering how to train as a Muggle doctor as well when he came back."

When John didn't continue, Sherlock shifted towards him slightly in a sign of encouragement. "But…you can't come back from the dead, at least not literally. Not even Moriarty was able to, although he did his best to make it seem that he had. You can't possibly have that kind of power."

"Apparently you can, though the work and sacrifices involved means that very few wizards have tried and succeeded." John rubbed a hand across his face as though he were scrubbing away the memories. "I don't know how it's done or care to know, but Voldemort managed it, back when Harry was in his fourth year. Dumbledore, the head of Hogwarts at the time, worked at building up the resistance to try and fight him off again. I was offered a place in the Order of the Phoenix, their group, but I didn't actually join until after my parents died."

Sherlock reached out in a quick movement to squeeze John's knee. Before he could move it, John snatched it up in a near crushing grip. "You don't have to share if you don't want to, John. I didn't intend to upset you."

"I want to." John stubbornly lifted his head to meet Sherlock's eyes, allowing him to see the pain etched into his expression. "I've wanted to tell you for a while now, pretty much since you came back. I…need to share this part of me with you." Sherlock returned the squeeze John gave his hand but didn't release it. John took it as a sign to continue. "Harry was out at the time, thank God, and I was the one who found them. They'd been discovered by some Death Eaters, Voldemort's followers. They tortured them, killed them, and etched the word Mudblood into their foreheads. Mudblood is an insult used by idiots and pureblood fanatics to offend Muggleborns." John swallowed thickly to stop the quivering in his voice. "It was one of their methods for threatening Muggleborns, killing their families and leaving that behind. I suppose they meant it to cow us, drive us into hiding or something like that, but it didn't work with me. I joined the Order the next day."

John shifted in his seat to hide the sniff he made to fight down his tears, clearing his throat as he moved to sit directly beside Sherlock. Their linked hands sat in the small space between them beside John's wand. "To cut an already long story short, a few years after that there was a battle. Harry destroyed Voldemort completely and we retook the Ministry of Magic to rebuild it. After the job was done, I decided to join the Muggle army in order to get the proper training to become a doctor."

"Two wars," Sherlock mumbled, and John could feel him shaking through their linked hands. "My God, John, no wonder you were such a mess when we met."

John let out a watery chuckle and nodded. "Yeah, I was in a bad spot back then, what with the friends I'd lost, both wizard and Muggle. The curse in my leg and shot in my shoulder didn't help."

Sherlock jerked away, but John was reassured that it was only so he could gape directly at him. "Curse in your leg?"

"Not so psychosomatic, is it?" John replied with a slight grin. "It was from a shot during the Battle at Hogwarts. I got caught between a few Death Eaters and got hit on the shin from a stray curse. I only had the time to do a quick Healing of it at the time and it tends to act up when I'm stressed."

"But I've seen your leg…there's nothing, no sigh of a wound – "

"Curses don't always leave physical marks."

Sherlock nodded and fell silent, staring across the room into the fire. John absentmindedly stroked a thumb across the back of Sherlock's hand, an unconscious movement to reassure the both of them. Eventually Sherlock let out a breath, part sigh and part grunt, and shook his head. "I still don't understand. After your shoulder injury and you were invalid back to London, you had no reason to cease using magic. Given your relationship with your sister, the most logical step would have been to reenter the wizarding world, particularly if this Voldemort fellow was gone for good."

John took a long moment to consider before he replied. "It was less difficult, coming back to the Muggle world rather than the wizarding one. I felt useless after I got shot – I knew it was too late after my injury to do anything magically to fix my shoulder and obviously the army didn't have Healers on hand to mend it when it happened. It was my dominant arm, both for practicing surgery and magic, so I felt like I had little purpose left in either world. And to be perfectly honest, it had been so long since I'd done any magic at that point…I wasn't even sure if I could anymore. What you saw earlier was the first time I've done magic since I joined the army."

Sherlock's fingers danced in John's grip, a waltz of reassuring touches. "Why now, of all times? You've had more than your average number of chances to use your magic again – "

"Because the last time I just sat by and let nature take its course, you died."

John felt Sherlock stiffen from the tension in the small space between their palms. "You would have stopped my fall, given the opportunity."

"Of course I would have – probably would have gotten in heaps of trouble for it with the Ministry, both for performing magic unasked on a Muggle and out in the open like that – but I would have done it anyway just to save you. But I wasn't carrying my wand with me back then…tonight was the first time I had in years."

"I…don't know what to say." Sherlock cleared his throat and refused to meet John's eyes. "Thank you, John. It would have ruined everything, but thank you for the thought."

"Any time," John laughed with a squeeze of Sherlock's hand. "It would have been worth the trouble to save you."

Abruptly, Sherlock snatched his hand away and shifted to fully face John, the excitement of a newly discovered experiment lighting up his face. "Would you show me more, John? More of what you can do?"

John sent him a half grin as he rose to his feet and snatched up his wand. "I suppose it doesn't matter much now that you know. What would you like to see?"

"Anything," Sherlock breathed. "Everything."

John's smile widened, pausing for half a second to consider. He turned to face the skull on its usual place on the mantle and, with the practiced ease of a man in his element, gave an arched swish and flick with a muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa." Instantly the skull shot into the air and floated to come and rest on Sherlock's lap at John's guiding. The childlike wonder that spread across Sherlock face caused a flood of warmth to spread through John.

"Astounding," Sherlock muttered, turning the skull in a careful grip to study it. "And no lingering side effects from the spell left over once it is complete. More!"

John chuckled and went through a series of basic spells, shooting water across the sitting room in an arch, causing Sherlock's laptop to disappear and reappear, and forcing the tea kettle to scrub itself clean. Each new spell caused a new wave of curiosity and delight in Sherlock, increasing John's enjoyment as well. John was surprised with the ease he felt in going through the once frequent motions, his wand familiar and comfortable in his grasp. On a whim, he said, "Orchideous Osiria!" and his grin broke out in a full smile as a bouquet of the duo-coloured roses grew from his wand's tip. He set aside his wand briefly to search out a vase, returning to the sitting room to arrange the roses on the mantle.

"You've always been more inclined toward that particular flower," Sherlock noted as he came forward to stand at John's side and stroke one of the petals.

"My mum's favourite. There's a forest right next to Hogwarts and these are the only Muggle developed plant to thrive on their own in there. They don't have a particular purpose in any spells, but I always saw Sprout giving them a particular spot of attention when she saw a bush of them. Even if they're not useful, they're fine to look at, and always remind me of my two homes, in the Muggle world as well as the wizarding one."

Sherlock gave a nod of agreement and eyed the wand now resting on the mantle. "I understand if you're not allowed, John, but if possible, could I…?"

"I was wondering when you'd ask, you git." John smirked at him as he picked the wand up and shoved it into Sherlock's hand. "Go on, then. Can't cause much harm if you haven't got the skill."

Sherlock raised the wand to eye level, balancing it on poised fingertips. He shifted it back and forth in his grasp, feeling along the wood's veins with gentle fingers and eying it from handle to tip. He spent a particularly long time studying the etchings on the base, following the outlines as they melded into smoothness to form the rest of his wand. Eventually he copied the way John held it, his grip loose but graceful as he gave it a slight swish. He jolted away as a few purple sparks erupted from the end, gaping as the wand clattered to the floor.

"That…wasn't supposed to happen." John blinked slowly up at Sherlock, whose round eyes were locked on him. He reached down and snatched the wand up to hold it out to Sherlock, who cowered ever so slightly away. "Go on, then, take it. I want you to try something."

Sherlock's gaze darted in uncertainty from the wand to John's face, eventually reaching out a hesitant hand to take it. John's eyes locked on the wand as he came to stand close beside Sherlock. "Hold it steady, no need for a motion on this one, and say Lumos."

Sherlock took in a shaking breath and said a small, "Lumos." The tip of the wand sputtered a bit in reply, but did nothing.

"Again, stronger. Say it like you mean it."

Letting out a huff, Sherlock steadied his grip and growled, "Lumos!" A shot of light lit up the sitting room, weaker than if John had done the same and flickering slightly but undeniably there. Sherlock's focus was locked on the ray of light, but John chose to watch Sherlock. His face was a mixture of confusion and amazement, the excitement of a young child radiating off of him in waves. The expression made him look years younger, smoothing out the lines that had begun to form along his eyes and forehead and enhancing his natural beauty. John caught the line of thought his mind was wandering down and shook it off quickly. His focus returned to his wand in Sherlock's hand.

"The counterspell is Nox. Give it a try."

Sherlock jerked a nod and narrowed his eyes in concentration. "Nox!" The light shuttered off like a torch with a dying battery. Sherlock let out the breath he'd been holding and lowered his arm to send an incredulous expression John's way. "John, that was…God, that was _fascinating_. How did you _do _that? It felt as though I were doing it myself!"

John's eyebrows rose at the same time his mouth fell open. "I…didn't do anything, Sherlock, just gave you the words. I'm not good enough to do wandless magic, particularly with how long it's been. That was all you."

"That can't be possible." Sherlock's forehead knit in thought. "I never received a letter to Hogwarts. Before today, I never would have believed any of this possible and even now only accept it with proof."

"Didn't that one bloke out in the woods say something about a Holmes getting involved in the case? Maybe it's something you need to bring up with Mycroft. He's only, what, a few years older than me, yeah? And you said he went off to boarding school as a kid…"

"That can't be right," Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than John. He narrowed his eyes down at John's wand, still clasped in a loose grip in his right hand. "Mycroft couldn't be a wizard; I would have figured it out years ago when he came home from holidays. He must be involved somehow…" His voice trailed off as he swayed slightly, hand rising to rub at his head.

John shot out to him almost instantly, snatching at the wand and Sherlock's elbow to steady him. "Whoa there, Sherlock. Look, maybe you should head to bed. You've had a shock, and that Healing spell most likely took a bit out of you."

"No! I mean…" Sherlock's frantic response gave him away, both in regard to how tired he'd become to slip up and how worried he was about what he'd learned. John caught on instantly and sent him a reassuring smile.

"I'll still be here in the morning, Sherlock, I promise. We can talk more then, after we've both rested up a bit."

"That's…not actually what I was concerned about." Sherlock's voice was small and fragile, a frightened little boy inside an arrestingly impressive man.

"It's real, Sherlock, trust me. Kipping down for the night won't change any of this or take back me telling you."

"I can't possibly know that," Sherlock protested, his fear beginning to evolve into a tantrum. "For all I know, this has been a thoroughly elaborate dream brought on by excessive time spent investigating your past and an overzealous imagination."

"The fact that you can still spew that shit at two a.m. after what we've been through tonight…" John's sigh evolved into a chuckle and he started pushing Sherlock towards his bedroom. "Right then, come on, off with you. No way to know if it was dream until you go to bed and nothing you can do about it if it is." Sherlock fell over his book strewn bed and awkwardly climbed under the covers. John was just about to leave when Sherlock's hand shot out to stop him.

"You're staying?" John could almost see a younger version of Sherlock in the man's current position, possibly seeking out reassurance after a nightmare. He couldn't help himself from reaching out a hand to run lightly through his curls.

"I have to stop home to pick up some things and check up on Mary and Cecelia, but I'll be back, I promise. We'll talk more when you wake. Now sleep."

John could tell he still wasn't certain, but he gave a brief nod and shut his eyes. John couldn't help his grin as he carefully closed the door behind him and headed out to get what he needed.

_Random end of chapter note - I put in a decent amount of research when I was attempting to choose what type of wood John's wand would be made of. I used the info that came from Pottermore to decide on one - I definitely encourage you to look up cedar wand woods to see if you agree with me!_


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